The Last Mile
by bravefan
Summary: The door opens again and this time he knows it's time. He rises up, determined to meet his executioners on his feet. He forces his legs to steady and tilts his chin a little higher. If they want to hang a Navy SEAL then a Navy SEAL they will get to the very end.
1. Chapter 1

I'm back… I swear I did accomplish some things. A little writing time at the end of the day has just been the motivation to try to get it all done. Updates might be a little less frequent but here we go again nonetheless.

Trigger warning - as indicated in the summary - no surprises on where this is heading. This one might be a tad darker than normal. Although I'm not sure I can really say that considering how heavy Paradise Found ended up.

0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0

_He doesn't regret any of the choices that led him to this moment._

_Well, maybe one._

_Clay always knew that this life was his calling and that he could be called upon to sacrifice his life in turn. He just didn't think it would go down like this._

_He shuffles blindly forward onto the platform. After a few tentative steps he feels the boards give slightly underneath his weight. He doesn't need the rough pull on his arms that stops him and forces him to stand in place to tell him that he is over the trapdoor now. _

_The rope comes up around his neck from behind with a sudden and decisive movement and his mouth loses all moisture. _

_There is no denying this is real now. There's no wishful thinking left, no naive optimism that will make it go away and apparently no last minute reprieve coming. _

_There is just the rope and him and the drums that beat louder and louder in an ever increasing rhythm, speeding up in perfect harmony with his racing heart and then with a final crescendo they halt and he drops._

_0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0_

"_Why are we even here again?_"

Sonny voices the thought that is crossing through most of their minds as they wander aimlessly through this small village with the apparent danger level of old macdonald's farm. There are goats, there are sheep, there are lots of chicken and a fair amount of women and children. What there aren't a whole lot of is military age males who have any chance of being terrorists or martyrs or even being regular pain in the asses to justify their existence on this mission.

Yet, here they are "happily" providing security for yet another politician with enough clout to somehow garner the services of a DEVGRU team so that he can commune safely with the locals in what amounts to little more than a publicity stunt.

At least that was how Jason succinctly summed it up after they rolled their eyes through the entire mission package. At least, for once, Mandy and Blackburn couldn't him of not listening.

They've already cleared the entire village, quickly and efficiently searching and ruling out the few possible individuals who might pose a threat of which there are surprisingly few. No weapons, no IEDs and nothing remotely suspicious to indicate any possible risk to the principle. It appears that most of the subjects of concern are off causing trouble elsewhere which given this region is not entirely surprising. Villages like these are more and more becoming unfortunate breeding grounds for more than just livestock. They raise their children to become farmers or fighters with a heavy emphasis on the later and an indoctrination from an early age to suit the occupation.

Given the sleepy nature of the village, the wide sprawling network of houses, none of which are taller than one story making overwatch a near impossibility, Jason gives the order to patrol while he and Ray escort the principle to the target house.

It's basically busy work at this point but they are here for appearances sake and so an appearance they will make.

It takes an impressive 23 minutes into their aimless solo wanderings, sorry _patrol patterns_, before Sonny gets bored and takes to his radio to make sure everyone is still fully aware that this is an incredible waste of time and resources to have them here for this glorified babysitting gig.

He gets firmly ignored.

Nobody at TOC wants to add fuel to the fire on that one.

However Sonny is nothing if not persistent, and possibly working with an ulterior motive of wanting an excuse to rile Davis up. Something Clay will happily tease him about when he sees the man later.

So the Texan stubbornly waits a few minutes and then breaks radio silence to try again.

"Havoc, these here goats just gave me the side eye, recommend further threat assessment and might need QRF on standby. How copy."

Clay grins, Sonny gets points for creativity on that one. The man can certainly turn a phrase when he wants to.

There is a pause and he can just picture Lisa trying to decide if she wants to dignify that with a response. Evidently she is unable to resist the bait any longer because she finally weighs in.

"_Good Copy, Bravo 3. In country sources suggest the brown one is ornery. Suggest extreme caution…..Avoid the horns_."

She impressively manages to keep it professional, at least until getting to the last bit of unsolicited advice and then a small bit of gleeful myrth registers over the crackling radio.

Clay likewise manages not to laugh out loud, but it's a close call and despite his best efforts a fairly unprofessional snort escapes. Next thing you know Sonny will have a goat phobia and Davis will have to research repellent devices for those too.

The little bit of levity in an otherwise fantastically boring day is worth the lecture they will probably all be getting from Jason and Blackburn later on the proper use of communications equipment during a mission.

He resumes his patrol pattern, keeping a wary eye out for these allegedly vicious goats and quickly picks up on a different threat tracking his movements. He swivels around sharply, weapon automatically starting to raise, and then has to shove it back down in what he hopes is a barely noticeable gesture when the source of his unease turns out to be two small kids watching him with wide eyes from the alcove between two nearby houses. He looks in their direction they quickly avert their eyes, turning back to their game and pretending not to have been staring at him.

He stands, for a moment, assessing the situation, blaming Sonny and his stupid goats for the distraction and the resulting over reaction. As he watches he realizes it's a young boy and girl sitting on the ground and playing an apparent version of chess with some creatively apportioned pieces. They are maybe 6 and 8, or at least that's his best guess, he's not great with that kind of thing. Ray would probably be a better judge of it. The girl looks about the same age as Jameleeh, maybe a little older and he's not sure the exact age where their customs begin to dictate that a female must cover her hair, and then eventually her entire body as he's witnessed throughout this village, but she is definitely younger than whatever that is and her hair falls freely to her shoulders for now. And he puts the boy a few years older than her, maybe just a few short years shy of the age that will see him likely swapping in his childhood games for a more violent and hands-on occupation.

His cynical assessment happens so quickly and naturally now that he almost doesn't even realize he's done it. That's perhaps the most disturbing part of it all. Clay shakes his head for a second, annoyed at himself for judging so harshly when really he knows nothing about these two or their life apart from the briefing he's been given based on outsider information and then his own experience here which spans a grand total of less than 3 hours and counting.

It's the kind of bitter and prejudiced view that used to make him cringe when he heard it from other soldiers. When did he stop resisting that stereotype? And when did he give in to just accepting one simplistic black and white view of the world because it's the one that makes the job easier. That answer comes more easily than it should. Probably somewhere between Adam, the Philippines, and losing Swanny because of a systemic failure of epic proportions.

Clay's worked hard over the last two years, both to make it back to operating and then once he did, to re-establish himself in the team that operated without him for a good 8 months. He's made it all the way back physically but its moments like this that are painful reminders that things aren't quite the same in all aspects. Maybe never will be.

He isn't ready to accept that quite yet though.

It's understandable that some things are different now, some are even better. His relationship with Stella for one, his bond with the team for another. But there are still come aspect of the "old Clay" missing in action that he isn't ready to give up on without a fight. Seeing shades of grey and believing in some good parts of humanity is one of those qualities that used to come naturally to him and maybe now he has to work a little harder for.

To that end, and with nothing else better to do he wanders over towards them to take a closer look and try to allay their fears about his presence in their village.

Holding up his hands peacefully he attempts what he hopes isn't a too badly botched greeting in their language.

"A-zu-l fil-ek"

Unfortunately Berber languages aren't exactly his strong suit and he stumbles over the pronunciation and the foreign sounding syllables come awkwardly off his tongue. He blames Sonny for this too. Come to think of it, it's rather amazing how many times Bravo 3 is the root of his problems these days. In this case the child of the team had refused to let him study in peace while he tried to learn some of the regional dialects on the plane. Why they needed to test out the new instagram filter that swapped genders at that exact moment he will never know.

Sure enough when he finishes his garbled attempt at communication the kids stare at him like he has three heads, or maybe just one pasty white and blond haired one. He shrugs it off and settles for a universal wave.

The little boy frowns and looks away from him and back to the board at his feet wanting nothing to do with the situation, in contrast his sister blinks shyly up at the strange man with a tentative smile and an as yet untarnished view of the world around her.

He smiles gently and holds still as she studies his boots, his fatigues, and then his gun with an unfortunate familiarity. Finally, she raises her eyes up to look hesitantly at his face and then her smile widens and she waves back slowly. The friendly moment, gives him hope on several levels, and he grins back bending down to extend a hand out to her for a handshake. This time she doesn't hesitate, immediately starting to extend her hand.

Part of the way out she freezes and her eyes widen going up to focus on something just above his shoulder.

Clay's self preservation instincts kick in a second too late and something hard and heavy connects to the back of his head before he can so much as reach for any sort of weapon. He crumples forward awkwardly and goes face first into the dirt where things fade in and out as desperately tries and mostly fails to cling to consciousness.

When he manages to force his heavy eyes open through the sharp lance of pain he sees mostly dirt and several pairs of shoes that are too big for either of the previous occupants of that space.

The world fades out again and he blinks and is on his back now, the sun sears into his eyes as he stares upwards, making his head pound harder and his stomach threaten to revolt. Figures move around him, spinning and blurring and he tells himself to get up. To fight back. But his eyes close of their own accord.

When he manages to peel them open again the little boy is standing above him, staring down with an unreadable expression. He wants to ask why? But he can't make his tongue move, can't make anything move. And he probably already knows the answer. The kid gets shoved away and larger hooded figures take his place.

He is so stupid and so, so screwed.

His radio squawks, Sonny's voice again, something about his ass, or an ass, or….

It's his last lifeline, and in a delayed reaction he tries to reach for his radio but faster hands beat him to it. The receiver is wrenched off his vest and he struggles to hold onto it, refusing to let go even as the person pulls him and it up and away from the ground. His strength and coordination quickly wane as the world spins faster and faster around him and with some small pressure from above, he loses his grip on the device one finger at a time. When the last finger releases its hold his upper body and head crash hard to the ground and when the back of his head makes contact he loses his grip on consciousness in a sharp flash of white light followed by total darkness.


	2. Chapter 2

The little girl waves to him slowly with a sad twisted smile on her face. He leans, stretching back towards her, reaching and trying to pull her out with him. They need to run, it isn't safe here, but she is too far away now and he slowly fades into the distance and then blinks back to awareness to find four familiar walls staring back at him.

By his best estimation it's been almost three days since he woke up here in this cell. There is a small gap where the wall meets the ceiling in one corner that lets light in from outside making it fairly easy to track the coming and going of the sun during the day. He just can't really be sure thanks to what he thinks is a large chunk of time he lost after he was hit. The splitting headache, spinning nauseating world, and exhaustion that continue to plague him tells him it was a doozy of a concussion that put him out for a while. That and the surprising amount of stubble on his face that wasn't there the last time he checked.

A few other surprising things are also readily apparent right off the bat.

One, he's not in Kansas anymore. Or the remote village in Algeria he was last in with Bravo. Hell, there's a good change he isn't even in Algeria anymore period. He could have been moved to any number of bordering countries or even further beyond while he was unconscious, all of which are home to a variety of groups that would happily harbor this type of less than scrupulous activity.

Two, these people are professionals. He evidently changed hands are least once during that dark period, possibly more, because the people who now have him very effectively shackled and very imprisoned in this very secure room that just happened to be all ready to go, are clearly not the same villagers from where he was taken.

It makes him think that the attack was likely just one of opportunity.

At least he hopes so, because the other possibility is that this was all a set up, right down to the seemingly innocent children who lured him in hook, line, and sinker. He's had a lot of time to appreciate the irony of him stubbornly trying to prove there was good left in humanity only to have it backfire this royally on him. It makes him feel marginally better to cling to the belief that it was just desperate people who took advantage of a dumb-ass soldier who put himself in a vulnerable position. If that was the case, they were unfortunately well enough connected to find a group that would take an American Navy Seal off of their hands. A part of him hopes they at least got paid well for it.

Perhaps this is the same level of disillusion Ray was experiencing when he lost his faith in God. Clay doesn't really believe in a higher power but he used to at least believe in people. Now when the guys give him the gears about this later, if there is a later, he isn't sure what grounds he will have to argue them on it.

But maybe there is still hope for him if he is even still bothering to question it and it appears he has all the time in the world right now to build a solid case.

He spent most of the first couple days sleeping off the all consuming headache that made it difficult to think or plan. Then when he finally emerged from that fog he spent most of the next day realizing he was completely and thoroughly screwed.

After that there really wasn't much to do and he very quickly became exceedingly bored.

Which probably should be a good problem to have while in captivity.

They mostly leave him alone. A couple times a day the slot in the door opens slightly and some food and water gets pushed through. Thats about as eventful as his day gets.

He doesn't know how to fight this. There are no punches to absorb. No opportunity to snipe back. And certainly no way to escape. They are professionals in every way. He spends days watching intently and can't see even the slightest crack or vulnerability in their security that gives him any sort of hope that escape might be possible.

There has been no torture. No inquisitions. No rough treatment unless you count poor wardrobe choices and disgusting food as war crimes in and of themselves.

So instead he works to keep himself busy since they bizarrely don't seem inclined to plan his days for him.

He designs a kickass bodyweight workout routine that helps burn off some of his pent up energy and frustration. It's worth the slight headache it dredges up afterwards to feel sane and in control, especially since Trent isn't around to nag him about overdoing it so soon after a head injury. Then he examines every inch of his cell just on the off chance he missed something the first 600 times he looked. And then when that gets tedious he starts trying to remember and mentally review every phrase of Arabic he's ever heard Ray use.

Clay sincerely regrets never finishing learning that language now. Random tribal dialects, he's got them in spades, but one of the most common languages in the world...Yeah, in retrospect not getting around to that one yet seems beyond stupid at this particular moment in time.

He knows some basic vocabulary and can sometimes get the gist of basic conversation but unfortunately complex phrasing is still well beyond him which means any sort of linguistic identification is also complete wishful thinking. He has no hope of telling whether the dialect he is hearing is Egyptian Arabic, Somalian Arabic, Bahraini Arabic, Syrian Arabic or from any of the other dozen or more North African and Middle Eastern countries where the language is prevalent.

Mostly he just waits, and hopes, and strains his ears tensing in preparation every time he hears the faintest abnormal sound that might indicate his guys are coming for him.

When they finally do come to get him out of his cell, the bad guys that is, they leave nothing to chance. The amount of men they feel is necessary to remove him is actually vaguely flattering because it's most definitely overkill. Even if it was only half of that number he still would have no choice but to let himself be "guided" out of the room and along the dark corridor.

He tries valiantly and fails miserably to follow the dialogue swirling around him as they walk but in the end it's irrelevant because their purpose becomes pretty clear when they force him down on his knees in the middle of a well lit room. The camera facing him is also a pretty dead giveaway of where this is going. Technically there are several different options but the guy standing behind him all but feeling up a machete seems to tilt the scales in favor of one less than ideal outcome.

They rant for a while, mugging for the camera, congratulating themselves on their amazing capture of a Navy Seal, or at least that's how he interprets it. It appears to be your typical terrorist bullshit that he's seen from a distance a million times. It just feels a little different when it's you they are talking about. When it's you waiting to see if or when they will bring that blade down.

The tension builds and builds and his uncertainty increases, waiting for the final punch line, the moment this situation will step off. He thinks through several different plans and dismisses them in short order. In the end he doesn't really know what he will do when the time comes he just knows he won't go down on his knees.

Then somewhere in all the rambling dialogue he manages to pick out a few words he knows, the word ransom, followed by some numbers he figures are his price tag, and he tries not to visibly melt to the floor in relief.

When he finally is back in his cell and alone he lets his hands unclench. They tremble violently against his will making the handcuffs jingle loudly in the silent room for several long minutes until his adrenaline finally wanes and his heart rate slows.

That's how it goes for the next couple days. He is dragged out at unpredictable times to film more videos, and unwillingly participate in more of their propaganda and rhetoric.

After a couple days on set they apparently decide his participation needs to improve. They stick a piece a paper in front of his face and then the silence hangs while they wait for him to read. He skims the English manifesto quickly and doesn't even make it a line or two before he determines there is not a chance in hell he is saying any part of it.

When he refuses the statement gets made for him. Apparently one of them can actually speak English, fun surprise, and then afterwards while the camera still rolls he pays dearly for his small act of defiance.

He closes his eyes and bites his lip until he draws blood and manages not to let any sounds escape until after he hears the camera finally shut off.

It turns out they are actually pretty good at inflicting pain when they want to.

He eventually ends up back in his cell in a world of hurt. There are bruises on bruises that make moving and even basic breathing a chore for a while, one eye that no longer opens fully and a pounding headache that speaks to his second concussion in less than a week.

They strangely leave him alone for a while after that. Nobody tries to capitalize on any sort of weakness or use their talents while he is already down. It doesn't make any sort of sense in the slightest.

In fact they don't seem to be remotely interested in any sort of intelligence gathering. He doesn't know if they don't bother because they know he won't talk, or because they are smart enough to realize he doesn't actually know all that much useful information, or frankly because they just don't care and are happy just to use him to push their propoganda and call it a day.

That's actually what really gets to him.

He knows full well his image will be appearing on every TV back home. What will start off as fodder for chat room trolls, dark web sadists and budding extremists in hidden corners of the internet will eventually leak to the mainstream media. Stella could end up watching him and she, like him, will never know if this will be the time they actually decide to end it.

That idea is a thousand times more painful than anything they could do to him here.

Likewise for his brothers in Bravo. He knows they will be watching helplessly too and with the added guilt of not being able to do anything to save him from it.

Clay knows they would if they could.

He never expected the ransom to get paid. That's above their head and policies are policies for a reason. America has to stand for its principles. Or at least this is one principle they seem to always stand for. No one needs to know about the shady backdoor deals, the prisoner swaps that occur on a regular basis without hitting the news ... but this, this is far too public to concede even an inch.

Besides he's not sure he would be able to live with it if they did.

No, any hope he has lies in Bravo locating and rescuing him. Clay knows beyond a shadow of a doubt, with a certainty he feels for few things in life, that nothing would keep them away. Not politics, not a risky mission, not even orders should Blackburn be dumb enough to try to stop them.

They just need to find him and then they will be busting down these doors. Sonny will bash some heads on the way in, Ray will sweep him in for a hug, Cerberus with get in the mix trying to get in to Clay until Brock laughs and pulls him off. Then Trent will move in and fuss over him like a mother hen and Jason will just sit back and watch it all with an approving nod before finally proceeding to ream Clay out for getting himself into this mess in the first place.

Which means when they don't come after a few days there starts to be a prickling unease about the situation. After a couple more days it grows into a mild concern and then develops into full fledged worry.

When it hits a week and they still haven't found him he starts to realize that a rescue may not be coming. The chances were not good to begin with and they worsen drastically with each passing day that allows any trail to grow colder and colder. He begins to understand deep down that he might be holding out hope for something that was never even a possibility.

That's when he starts to have to accept that he is going to die here. The only question left is when and how it will happen.

It gets answered surprisingly fast.

The next time they drag him out they announce he will be hanged. In fact they announce it in multiple languages including English just to be sure the message is crystal clear.

Tomorrow.

He is going to die tomorrow.

They announce he will be hanged... Tomorrow.

Terror, exhaustion, disbelief, and a weird sense of relief that he doesn't fully understand all flood him at once and war for prominence at the forefront of his emotions.

Hanging. It's not his first choice for sure. Its archaic. Its barbaric. He supposes there probably still are other worse ways to go even if he is currently having trouble thinking of any.

His bigger concern is that the only reason they would choose that method. He figures they intend to continue their showmanship and to created an unforgettable spectacle that he will star in long after his death. The image of a navy seal strung up and defeated will feature on every paper for both the good guys and the bad guys for entirely different reasons

Clay's death will mean a lot of different things to a lot of different people. And he wants none of it.

He doesn't want to be the poster child for their reign of terror and has never wanted to be the hero soldier that the country mourns for collectively. Contrary to popular belief back when he first joined Bravo, he never even wanted to go out in a blaze of glory. Dealing with the loss of Brian, and then Echo, seeing Sonny almost go, he had first hand seats to the pain it causes and he has never wanted to leave his team in that position.

That said, in their life, that decision isn't always up to you and they all have to make their peace with that possibility. If he had to go though, he wanted it to be for some sort of reason. Something worthwhile like serving the greater good, saving a brother, accomplishing the mission he suited up for. This has gone so many degrees from that that he can barely even remember what they set out for again. Now his death will serve an entirely different purpose and that just adds insult to injury.

Its that injustice that finally drives him to react after so many days of sitting passively and waiting for the right moment, hoping for a chance. Down on his knees, staring down the camera, he finally decides that there won't be the opportune moment and that going out on his own terms is the best he can hope for.

He softens his expression, and focuses in on the camera that's still rolling, he speaks to his team, to Stella, to Naima and the kids, to Jason's kids, to anyone and everyone he knows who might be affected by this, and mouths _"I'm sorry_" and then attacks.

He makes it to his feet in one smooth movement, with no free hands and no limited foot movement his options are limited so he drops a shoulder into the nearest guy he can find and rams him into a wall linebacker style. If Sonny is watching this he hopes he gets extra points for the football technique. Proof that he doesn't zone out when the Texan takes up residence on his couch and forces him to watch the big games. He drops the first and second guy using the element of surprise but then the rest react and start coming at him and he gets tangled up as he turns to meet the next wave. A hard fist drives all the air out of his stomach and doubles him over. A heavy blow to his back sends him down to the ground where he scrambles to flip over. Clay continues to fight even as they pile on. He throws knees, elbows and headbutts that make him see stars. He bites, thrashes, spits and flails the best he can through the mass of people pressing down on him.

His futile efforts are put down quickly and efficiently. And when the blows start to reign down on him in full force he prays for it to end right here, right now. For them to go a few steps too far and to get a little too carried away. _Please_. End it here and now.

But they are professionals through and through.

They pull up short of anything life threatening and drag him back to his cell, sore but regretfully very much still alive to pass the rest of the day and night before his execution.

It's a long day and an even longer sleepless night.

He is aware of every breath, every bruise, every heartbeat, every blink that counts him down. His stomach ties itself firmly into a knot and he doesn't bother even trying to eat his last meal. It's not like they gave him anything special anyways. lts the same tasteless paste he's had every other day here.

Somewhere in the seemingly endless afternoon it occurs to him that they saved the true torture for the very end.

It's a special kind of suffering usually only reserved for murderers on death row to get to know the exact time and painful way you are going to go. To get to spend the precious time you have left counting down the hours and minutes and seconds remaining all while envisioning exactly what it's going to be like in the end when you finally get to zero.

He wonders how long it will take.

He prays it will be quick. Best case scenario the drop will break his neck and it will be over before he knows it.

If not he knows it could take an extended amount of seconds, minutes even, while he slowly suffocates. It won't be pretty for anyone involved and he wants nothing more than to avoid that final humiliation and final pain for his loved ones.

In an effort to pass the time differently, or maybe just to torture himself in a different way he starts to think about all the things he would say to them if he had the chance.

He tries to picture Stella. To imagine her here with him so that he can tell her how much he loves her one last time and apologize for putting her through this and for cutting out on the life they were building together.

Over the last two years he's come to realize just how much he was missing out on when he tried to go it alone. It's clear now how much better life is with Bravo _and_ Stella in it. And that despite everything his childhood told him, it actually isn't impossible to have both this life and a family and still make it work. On some level he's started to allow himself to consider the next steps, things like rings and kids and a house with a pocket fence and a dog. He just wasn't aware of how much he'd become attached to those ideas until the regret of losing them hits sharp and sudden.

Clay didn't know it was possible to mourn the loss of something you don't even have yet.

But he can practically see it, all the opportunities and the "could have beens" in their lives that will go unlived now. He will never get to see her walk down the aisle, or watch her grow round and radiant with their child and then have a little baby, or maybe even two, tottering around them. Fast forward a few years and there's a little girl, shrieking with joy and laughter as her parents swing her on their arms between them sending her beautiful brown ringlets flying everywhere. And then a little blond-haired blue-eyed mini-me bursts into his heart real as anything and demands his dad play hide and seek in the yard before they go T-ball later. God he wants those moments, those chances. All the things you think you can wait for and didn't even know you wanted or needed until your future is suddenly painted for you without them.

When that gets too painful he shifts to thinking about his team.

Although that's not really a whole lot better.

He wishes he had a radio to say his last goodbyes like Sonny did. As awful as that was there was at least some level of closure. It didn't make it any easier at the time, probably made it worse in the moment, but down the road it would have made a difference. He would like the chance to tell them what they all mean to him. That it was the honor of his life to fight alongside them and that he doesn't blame them, not in the slightest. He hopes they know anyways.

In the end though, he has to pass the time alone.

At least for now.

With every minute that ticks down he feels further from the life he had before and closer to the end that he hopes will maybe include a chance to see Brian, and Adam, and his grandparents and everyone else that's gone before him.

It's the first comforting thought he hits on.

He's never been much for religion but faith is about all he has left right now. He chooses to have faith that there will be something waiting for him on the other side. It's about all he has to cling to right now.

Daylight begins to creep through the familiar slit in the ceiling.

Normally he enjoys the small amount of light it brings. The feel of the morning sun on his face if he sits just right reminding him there is something else still there outside these walls. A world outside the one he is living in.

Today the light will bring something else. Something darker and more permanent.

As if summoned by his morbid thoughts, there are noises outside his cell door and his stomach twists even tighter. A wave of panic overwhelmed him suddenly and unexpectedly.

It's too early.

He should have more time.

He isn't ready.

It's too early.

He's not ready.

One of his guards slides a breakfast into the room through the slot, and pauses before he lets it drop to say in broken english,

"One hour."

Clay stares in disbelief at the tray, willing his heart rate to slow down and his breathing to calm.

It's the same dismal offering as every other day except someone appears to have sprinkled some sort of berry on top of the ground up flour mush he has become accustomed to. He stares at it, considering, completely dumbfounded at the sheer absurdity of the situation. A quiet chuckle has him shaking silently, bubbling up more and more until it finally erupts out in hysterical laughter. He isn't sure what was the final straw was, maybe the incredulousness of them thinking he actually wants to eat right now, or the fact they are even bothering to feed him when they are going to kill him in less than an hour, or possibly someone's attempt to jazz up his last meal. Its probably some combination of all three and a large sampling of the giddy relief coursing through him at the small stay of execution that makes it all seem ridiculously comical. The literal gallows humor has him gasping for air around his peels of laughter and probably looking like he is having some sort of psychotic break to anyone watching from the outside.

When he finally finishes and gets himself back under control he is the good kind of spent. It's the same wrung out feeling that comes after a good long cry except this emotional release was more acceptable for his pride.

He forces himself to get up and go through the motions of his daily routine.

It's fantastically pointless and yet it's better than the agonizing alternative of sitting and stewing for another 56 minutes.

There is nothing less appealing then letting his imagination run wild right.

So Clay does some pushups and squats, relishing the feel of his muscles burning and working, still firmly under his control.

He washes his face and tries to comb some sense of order into his unruly hair with his fingers. He would love a brush to really effectively tame his mop. A razor too for good measure as his beard is long past needing a trim.

Finally he uses the corner of his handcuffs to scrape one last day into his tally on the wall.

l

9 days.

He won't get to double digits

Clay stares at the wall, feeling an irrational desire to leave something else behind other than just impersonal tick marks that could have belonged to anyone. With a sudden inspiration he sets out again, painstakingly gouging out 5 letters and one number.

He steps back to survey his handiwork.

B-R-A-V-O-6

Yes, that's better.

By the time he finishes his internal clock tells him it's almost time and sure enough he hears faint footsteps in the hallway. He takes a few deep breaths. Determined to be more ready this time. To stay composed.

It's funny, in SEAL training they teach you a lot about how to kill. They also spend a lot of time preparing you to be captured, tortured, extorted, manipulated. Yet, the one thing they gloss over and don't bother preparing you for is how to die.

Its assumed you might. Everyone knows that.

And even more so everyone naturally embraces the vision of a stoic soldier facing his death with dignity and strength and composure.

They just don't teach you how to achieve that goal.

How not to be a blubbering mess or to collapse or shake, or show any fear when you are facing down your final moments.

Maybe they gloss over those finer points because most of the time there really isn't that much time to eff it up.

Usually it's just a few quick goodbyes, if you are lucky, while you bleed out or lose consciousness. With the blast for example he barely had time to realize what was happening and if he hadn't ever woken up again he wouldn't have been any the wiser.

This time it's just his luck he has had almost a full 24 hours to mull it over in excruciating detail.

Maybe on some level this is what Brian went through for the last couple hundred feet when he realized his reserve wasn't going to slow him down in time.

Did he feel this alone? This unprepared? This inadequate? Did he want to cry or beg or plead for someone, anyone to help him?

At the time Clay had been grateful the coms didn't pick up whatever Brian's last words would have been.

It was too raw. Too soon. He wasn't sure he could have handled hearing what his friend went through in his final moments. But now he wonders what the man might have said when he realized the ground was rushing up too fast. Was their just sheer panic or was their acceptance at some point. He can't help but think Brian would have taken it calmly and with an unflinching perspective like he did most things. Just a smidgen of that perspective would be helpful right now.

Because Clay just doesn't know if he is strong enough to do this.

He feels like a scared kid. He doesn't want to do this.

He wants someone to swoop in and rescue him. To make it all go away as childish and unrealistic as that is.

In the end there really is no choice though.

He will have to find the strength somewhere, for Stella and for his team.

He will show no fear and hope that it makes it a little easier on them. It's all he can do at this point.

The door opens and this time he knows it's time. He rises up, determined to meet his executioners on his feet. He forces his legs to steady and tilts his chin a little higher. If they want to hang a Navy SEAL then a Navy SEAL they will get to the end.


	3. Chapter 3

Trigger warning - again there were no surprises where this was going, but we are there now, and it might be tough reading.

_0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0_

_The best way out is always through._

_And I agree to that, or in so far_

_As that I can see no way out but through _

—_Robert Frost_

0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0

When they walk him out Clay stares straight ahead, dead center, refusing to look around him in any direction.

He doesn't have any desire to search for the camera that he knows will be watching, ready to capture and record his every move. And even more so he can't let himself see what they are leading him towards.

The firm grip on both his arms tells him there is no where to go. No other direction to take. No way out of this except one.

He just needs to get through it.

Same as any of the other shitty situations that he has faced throughout his life.

This will be no different. Another obstacle to overcome. Just another mission to prove his metal.

And maybe if he says that enough he will actually start to believe it.

He still can't believe that this is what it's come to.

He doesn't regret any of the choices that led him to this moment.

Well maybe one.

Clay always knew this was his calling, and that he could be called upon to sacrifice his life. He just didn't think it would go like this_. _

If he pictured his death it never included him chained and hobbled and completely powerless being led like a lamb to the slaughter. And even more so he never imagined he would be dressed up in scarlet robes, the headlining act at a circus he didn't even buy tickets for.

But here he is and they continue to push him forwards towards the structure looming ahead of him that despite his best efforts his eyes lock onto and he can't unsee now. He would love to believe it's just a stage they are heading to except that he knows better.

_Just get through it. _

_It's going to be over soon _

_It will all be over soon. _

He wills himself onwards despite every deeply ingrained survival instinct telling him to fight. Or flee. Or do anything but this. He's tempted to dig his heels in and add just a few more seconds to his rapidly diminishing lifespan in the vain hope it makes a difference. In case somehow someone is coming for him.

Deep down he knows they aren't.

It just doesn't make him want it any less.

_Just get through it. _

_Just have to get through it. _

They stop him next to the structure and force him to stand there for a moment, presumably to listen to the official sounding proclamation that echoes out around him. He doesn't bother trying to decipher any of the words, he is out of time to learn another language.

Out of time for a lot of things really.

He assumes they are just reminding the crowd, and the world, that he is a traitor and probably an infidel too for good measure.

That's fine.

Clay takes it as somewhat of a compliment coming from them.

The speech is met with cheers from the crowd. At times they scream out in agreement and at others they hurl unmistakeable jeers and taunts in his direction.

He stands there and owns it, face of stone.

He will give them nothing.

Then, much closer, a crunch of gravel unexpectedly behind him and everything goes dark in front of his eyes as a black fabric comes down over his head.

His fear ratchets up a notch in response and it takes everything in him not to try and resist it. Bound, now blind, he's maybe more vulnerable and more helpless than he's ever been in his life.

_Just get through it. _

_It's almost over now. _

He takes a couple deep breaths to regain his composure. He is so close he won't lose it now.

With the return of rational thought comes a surprising clarity and drastic change in perspective and he feels his mood lighten substantially. The hood means the loss of one of his senses sure, but it also means something else that he is immensely grateful for in this moment.

Privacy.

It's a small mercy he didn't expect to be granted.

Isn't sure why they are apparently going to let him have it but he's certainly not going to look a gift horse in the mouth. He assumes its for the ease of his executioners and honestly he could give a rats ass about their comfort levels except that this works to his benefit as well. At least this way no one at home will have to actually see him suffer and die.

He doesn't want that image to be the last one his loved ones have of him. Maybe it's too much to hope for that they will leave the hood on afterwards. Still if he at least gets to die in private than that is more than he was counting on.

He starts to sweat in the stifling confines of the hood and his regalia and now more than ever he wants to get this show on the road.

_Get it over with. _

_Just get it over with _

As if they hear his silent prayer, the grip on his arm tightens further and tugs him forward forcing him to move again.

His legs feel leaden and non cooperative. Like he's gone back in time to when he needed a walker just to stay upright. Its as if his limbs understand where they are heading and are firmly against that decision. They are going to have to get with the program because Clay won't be dragged up there like a coward in front of the world. If he could make his shrapnel scorched legs work then, he can certainly master them one last time now. He grits his teeth and focuses all his energy on shuffling along as best he can in the shackles that have only a few inches of give. It becomes uneven harder when they reach the stairs but still he manages.

Up one stair, then another.

Another.

Another.

And another

The ground levels out under his next step and he almost tumbles forward when his foot doesn't find the ledge it is expecting. He manages to right himself, sets his shoulders, takes a breath and continues on firmly ignoring the laughs that ring out from the hostile crowd around him

_Just get through it. _

_It's almost over._

_Just get through it. _

His heart is pounding louder and louder.

He shuffles blindly forward on the platform until the boards give slightly underneath his feet. He doesn't need the pull on on his arms to tell him that he is over the trapdoor now.

_It's almost over. _

_It's almost over._

Where everything else has been drawn out and overdone in theatrics there is no more messing around here.

The rope comes up around his neck and his mouth loses all moisture.

There is no denying this is real now.

There's no wishful thinking, no naive optimism that will make it go away.

There is only one way out...through it.

_Please be quick_

_Come on get it over with _

_Make it quick_

Drums beat in rhythm, speeding up in perfect harmony with his racing heart and then with a final flourish the drums stop and then there is nothing but air beneath his feet and he drops.

His momentum comes to a sharp, abrupt end with a loud creak and a jarring wrench to his neck that sends him swinging helplessly and disoriented beneath the hood.

Clay has just enough time to be both grateful and appalled that he's still alive before the all consuming panic sets in.

His body's autonomic response is shockingly instantaneous and he isn't ready for just how immediately it starts freaking the fuck out when it realizes there is no more air coming.

His mouth gasps in vain but nothing comes. Nothing at all.

The rope digs relentlessly tighter, choking off any hope. Constricting, binding, it closes his airways completely never giving even an inch.

His lungs scream in deprivation, paralyzed and burning so intensely that there is no more room for rational thought.

Just air, he needs air.

The darkness continues to press in all-around him, encompassing everything and suffocating him in its hold while it mocks him relentlessly.

There is no more air. There will never be more air.

His whole body rebels against that idea, bucking, flailing, wildly shaking. His hands and feet strain against their bonds, trying to break free so they can find some purchase or some relief from this nightmare.

He thrashes fitfully, completely beyond any hope of self control now and his heart races out of his chest.

His head pounds equally fast, his rapid pulse felt so strongly through every part of his body that it's all he can hear, his own internal set of drums beating a frenzied solo. Then a faint ringing joins up in harmony, louder and louder, and his heart beats harder and harder and something must give soon beneath all the pressure and all the noise.

Except it doesn't and a dull haze creeps gently in smoothing over everything. The hysteria lessens, the pounding deadens, the ringing wanes and in the peaceful quiet that settles in lights start flashing in the darkness Small bursts of exploding colour illuminate the skies around him and he is not alone anymore. Clay is back on the beach with his team watching the fourth of July fireworks in the distance. He can feel Stella pressed firmly against his side with her head on his chest as they lie sprawled on a blanket in the soft sand. Down by the water Cerberus frolics in the waves with Ray's kids. They run and chase the dog laughing with delight. Little RJ gets left behind and when he turns Clay realizes he was mistaken. This child has blonde hair and shockingly familiar blue eyes that reflect the streaks of blues, reds and whites exploding above him in the sky.

The fireworks start to fizzle, the lights dim in the sky, but he feels his family still there with him in the growing obscurity.

Stella's fingers seek his out, intertwining and squeezing firmly, anchoring him even as he starts to feel himself fall. He squeezes back, and then drops his cheek to rest softly on the top of her head, his heavy lids blink slowly, brushing the top of her head once, twice before they remain shut and he relaxes gently into the darkness.

0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0


	4. Chapter 4

Clay needed to walk those first couple chapters alone. But now it's time to take it back a few days and get some other perspectives.

0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0

"How do we _still_ not know where he is?

Mandy, doesn't flinch at the question even though it cuts her deeper than she will ever admit.

She ignores Jason, and his disbelief, and continues on working hoping that will dissuade the confrontation he is so clearly itching for.

"Seriously Mandy, how hard is it to find a guy in the middle of the damn dessert?"

Or maybe it won't.

It's not the first time he has voiced this kind of sentiment. He has pretty much asked some variation of it every few hours over the last couple days. Sometimes in more polite ways and sometimes in less.

It's also nowhere near the first time she has asked herself the same question. Unable to believe that a person surrounded by so much technology in small remote village could seemingly vanish of the face of the earth.

Jason continues to glare at her. She can feel his eyes boring into her back, clearly not going to let it slide without a response and he eventually clears his throat expectantly.

Mandy takes a deep breath and rolls her shoulders, trying to ease some of the tension that has set in after spending the majority of the last three days in the same spot scrutinizing every report and surveillance she could get her hands on. Finally when she can't reasonably procrastinate answering any longer she turns to face the firing squad. They are supposed to be on the same team, the perfect blend of intelligence professionals and master tacticians, but Bravo is about 72 hours and 1 teammate short of that ideal situation right now.

Today they need a target and apparently she will have to do.

When she finally speaks, she keeps her tone cold and factual, trying to defuse the situation and douse Jason's inflammatory accusations.

"By the time his absence was discovered"…. She takes a brief pause there and makes eye contact with Jason and every remaining member of Bravo standing behind him, just to remind them all that she is not the only one who fucked up here ..."there was already a long headstart. We were already behind the eight ball."

She knows they are hurting, stressed and out of sorts but she isn't going to fall on her sword and wear all of this one just for their piece of mind.

That's not to say she doesn't bear a heavy responsibility for what happened because clearly she does. She missed something in the village and she would dearly love to know what exactly it was. She is just still working on that part unfortunately.

That said, decisions were also made on the ground that led to this outcome, tactical ones, and those aren't on her.

She doesn't get involved in operational decisions for this very reason. She sets the board and gives them the rules of the game. Then how they choose to play it out is up to them and completely their domain.

"As you know we were able to track one pick up truck leaving shortly after what we estimate is the window Clay was ambushed in."

She zooms out on the map "we could follow its movement up until _here_ with ISR, but then we lose them in an underground structure in the city. That vehicle never exits again, but way too many others do in the minutes and hours after to even guess at which one might be carrying a blond haired blue eyed sniper. That's not even considering other ways they might have figured out how to transport him. There are just too many possibilities, too many variables at this point."

It's nothing she hasn't already told them at least once a day. She does however stop short of mentioning that the search radius is ever widening. Hour by hour the distance they could have covered in any direction increases. By now they could be pretty much anywhere in the entire continent of Africa or anywhere throughout the Middle East.

She doesn't touch on just how many strongholds there are in those two areas and how many hundreds of groups, on and off their radar, that have the motivation and means to pull off something like this. Sending the team to the wrong one could be just as catastrophic as not sending them at all.

And she completely avoids the fact that she isn't any closer to determining which of those groups has him. Or if he is even still alive. They are assuming he is. Otherwise it makes no sense not to have killed him and left him in that alley. It would have been far simpler and far less work. Instead all they found was a blood splashed helmet, a small pool of blood in the sand and apparent signs of a struggle.

She sighs.

Yeah. There really isn't much else she can say that won't make this worse.

"Look guys, we are doing everything we can, working every source we have, every resource from here back to DC is focused on this. He is our top priority."

That doesn't exactly seem to placate them, but it does at least manage to shut them up long enough for Ray to do what he does best. He corrals the team and shepherds them out to go throw around heavy things at the gym or maybe throw shots back at the bar. She isn't sure which one and she doesn't really care as long as they aren't here breathing down her neck and preventing her from hearing herself think.

Mandy has never been a team player.

In fact her academically glowing report cards often made thinly veiled, read between the lines, kind of references to that as an area for possible growth. She still remembers her 5th grade teacher Mrs Williamson writing things like.

_"We encourage Mandy to work towards cooperating more consistently with others"_

Was it her fault that Jamie Patokan at 11 years old was already just too vapid and dumb to dignify any sort of response to her ignorant comments on lesser developed countries outside of America.

_"Mandy often contributes information and ideas to the group. She sometimes follows routines and instructions independently and at her own pace." _

She could kind of on some level understand why the teacher wanted other students to have a chance to answer questions occasionally even if they usually got it wrong. But she drew the line at slowing herself down to be more in line with the rest of the class' "pace" when she could finish her work and move on to something else in half the time.

_"Mandy is self-confident and willing to assume a leadership role with her classmates. She continues to improve at valuing, accepting and encouraging ideas from others in her group"_

Sometimes you just need to take charge and get shit done, that's really all there is to it. And she has never agreed with that ridiculous assertion about there being no such thing as a dumb question or dumb idea.

It probably goes without saying that she avoided team sports when she got to high school. Instead focusing her time and energy on track and field and swimming and anything else that was just her and her skills against the world.

And finally after she graduated university and was able to leave those damn mandatory group projects behind her forever she thankfully lands in a career that values independence, initiative and intellect above all else and could care less if she even speaks to another person during the day as long as she gets results.

She flies solo and flies up the ranks equally fast.

Her files are hers and hers alone. No shared taskings, no shared portfolios. She lives or dies by her intelligence and hers alone.

That's not to say she doesn't collaborate or respect the skill sets of others or recognize the need to reach out to subject matter experts from time to time. She just develops her own network of trusted people whose insight and talents she actually respects and wants to go to.

It's a beautiful thing.

For the most part she keeps her social life and work separate. Keeps them in clean, neat little boxes and when she spends 90 percent of her time dedicated to the work the other box empties out pretty quickly until only a few dedicated friends and family are left. They somehow stick around for the long haul even though they consistently have to play second fiddle to the beeping of her phone or a sudden event on the news heralding her departure.

Likewise her work acquaintances are just that people she aquiants herself with at work. For the most part in the cutthroat world of the CIA people are more than happy to keep their internal competition at arms reach and there isn't a whole lot of pressure to take anything further than a few cordial nods or smiles in the hallway. Maybe a quick lunchroom chit chat while the microwave heats something up. That's about it though.

Neat tidy boxes with clear distinct lines. Just how she likes it.

And then Bravo waltzed in and muddied it all up in a hurry.

Her involvement with the DEVRGU teams started out as a project, as a means to an end. An ingenious way, she thought, to gain just a little more control and input into the situation and of course she made sure she was paired with the best of the best in Bravo.

Most analysts hand over the package and walk away but she wanted to be there in the action to ensure she got the most Intel out of every mission and see if it was possible to keep the HVT from getting swacked more often than not.

She remembers her naive self telling Lisa she couldn't go out for drinks back at the start because she didn't want to become attached. Wanted to keep a clear head.

Somewhere not too long after that her principled stand about professional distance quickly became a lost cause. It's almost laughable now to remember how earnest and idealistic she was about that back then.

Maybe it's just not possible to spend that much time together and to go through what they go through, the highest of highs and the most painful of lows, and not form some sort of bond.

Despite her best efforts she begins to feel part of something vaguely team-like for the first time in her life.

It happens in little moments, in shared glances of relief with Davis and Blackburn when things somehow work out once again against all odds and then in shared beers on the plane ride back to pretend there was never a doubt about it. It's in the teasing they start to include her in and the good natured ribbing and sarcasm she now builds in to her mission briefs as a matter of course to get a laugh. Eventually whatever "it" is gets forged in steel through a few hairy deployments, unexpected losses and hard won vengeances and victories.

In retrospect it was probably hypocritical as fuck for her to be calling Jason out for not being the same leader he used to be when they deployed to Mexico.

They are all different. Everyone of them.

None of them escaped the previous year unscathed or unchanged.

She just doesn't realize how much that applies to her until they call her to the carpet for her decision in Pakistan. That one where she backchannelled classified information on a protected source to the Pakistani government in order to buy Bravo a get out of jail card.

You can make the argument that it was necessary to protect national interests as well, and she holds firm to that position, through all of the inquiries and hearings. But it probably holds less weight after she accidentally referred to Bravo as "her team" once or twice. It didn't escape her notice and she doubts it got by the inquisition panel's either. The subconscious slip up is entirely too telling about just how different she is these days.

Mrs. Williamson would have been so proud.

The CIA was less so.

When they took "her team" away from her and plunked her in an office they thought they were punishing her by taking her out of the action and chaining her to a desk.

They got their punishment alright, it was just more in the fact that she had to sit there everyday knowing that Bravo was going out on someone else intel. That their lives were reliant on someone else's competency. For a control freak like herself that was worse than anything else they could possibly think to throw at her.

Still she has never once regretted that decision to save Ray and Bravo. Mandy would do it again in a heartbeat and deal with the consequences all over again. Would do it right this second if she could figure out how to do it to get Clay back. She would take another blackmark in her file if she needed too and deal with the tedious projects and nauseating amount of ass kissing she had to do to claw her way back out into the field.

Even as she tries to work now she has a hard time focusing and thoughts of Clay keep creeping in. His pensive expression when he listens (and actually pays attention) to her briefings and then usually asks an insightful question or two. The times he comes afterwards to pick her brain always seeking a little extra knowledge or perspective on the relevant issues. And then on the less deep, less intelligent side, the childish banter that so often flows between him and Sonny, and secretly makes her laugh even though she outwardly rolls her eyes at it.

Mandy is long past the point of emotional detachment. There is no denying that anymore.

When she made it back to the team she could no longer plead ignorance or pretend to be uncompromised. Instead she forced herself to acknowledge the issue and create some strategies for dealing with it. Establishing new more realistic boundaries was one. Another was ensuring there were hard objective lines in place to tell her if the time comes that she is no longer capable of doing her job effectively and needs to walk away.

It's moments like these that are her measuring stick, as much as she wishes they came around less often.

She needs to be able to separate herself from the emotion of Bravo, the worry for Clay, the uncertainty of the situation and still do her damn job which in this case is to find out who took Bravo 6 and more importantly where the hell they took him.

So with the room clear, she clears her mind as well. Reviews the information. Sinks into the facts she knows and redefines the key questions. Who took Bravo 6 and why? And where did they take him? Motive and location. That's what she needs to find out. Two things. Just two things, she can do this.

Fortunately the motive actually becomes apparent almost immediately.

Unfortunately it's not because of any sort of great analysis on her part.

94 hours after Clay goes missing a video hits on one of the less desirable sites that gets monitored 24/7 for just these kinds of things. It gets routed to her and Mandy pulls it up with Eric beside her and they screen it with baited breath to make sure it isn't something that Bravo shouldn't see.

When Clay appears on screen he actually looks better than she expected. He has been missing almost a full four days at this point and that's a lot of time to do a lot of awful things so it's pleasantly surprising when he looks to be mostly unharmed. He kneels in front of the camera defiant, proud and unbroken.

Both her and Eric have trouble focusing on anything but the machete in the background behind Clay on the first watch through. They slump back into chairs thoroughly relieved when the video ends a long 3 minutes and 49 seconds later with a ransom demand instead of a decapitated soldier.

But then they have to call Bravo.

It's substantially more painful to watch it the second time with them and feel their reactions to seeing their teammate and brother marched onto the screen.

When Ray translates the part about a ransom Trent looks between her and Blackburn with a sad certainty … "they won't will they." It's barely even a question.

She purses her lips, Blackburn swallows hard. They don't actually have to answer. Everyone knows the answer, the US military doesn't negotiate with terrorists.

There is silence for a long moment until Jason in the quietest voice she's never heard him use asks "how long before this hits mainstream media?"

Mandy ruthlessly clamps down on the spike of guilt picturing Stella or any of Clay's loved ones watching this because Jason is right, it will end up there eventually.

Stella already knows he is missing in action. They passed that threshold almost 24 hours ago and that devastating notification has already been made. Another truly awful phone call that poor women has been on the receiving end of. Mandy isn't sure how Jason and Eric are going to follow that up with this one. It's the worst kind of good news bad news situation she can imagine. In the end the whole team heads off together to make that call together. It sucks that they can't be there in person to support her right now but the team has repositioned to a base in Turkey rather than returning home in an effort to stay as close to the region as possible in the hopes of going out on a rescue mission.

While they are gone she resumes her position. Now with renewed purpose and direction. There has to be something in this video that she can unpack. Something that will offer more information.

She watches and rewatches, picking up more and more details now that she knows how it ends. Mandy can focus on studying the background, the foreground, the people who enter the screen, the people that talk, what they say with the assistance of a translator. She looks for anything and everything that could provide information.

When that comes up empty she starts to key in on Clay, counting his blinks, charting his finger movements, hoping the man might try to give them something to work off. Ultimately that seems to be a dead end too which maybe shouldn't be surprising. Judging by the quality of the video these men are professionals and it's entirely possible Clay doesn't have any information to offer.

It continues like that for several more days. Video after video. Over and over again they trot him out, plop him down in front of the camera, pat themselves on the back for their amazing capture, and remind everyone of the ransom on his head.

Which means it's day after day of watching the screen with their jaws clenched.

More of the panicked searching they all do when Clay finally comes on screen to see what kind of shape he is in today. There is more of a reaction in this room then from the actual victim on screen when blows land in retribution for his refusal to play ball in his captor's cinematic productions.

Mandy is actually impressed with how well the team is holding up considering. Blackburn does a masterful job of trying to keep them busy. Of shuffling them out to do tasks and run drills and stay out of their hair while they try to make something happen. Mandy eats, doesn't sleep, and breathes this case. She barely remembers what her bed looks like at this point. Blackburn is in TOC just as often, endlessly trying to works his connections to get someone higher up to intervene on Clay's behalf monetarily even though that's probably a lost cause.

Ray and Jason spend a lot of time checking in on the home front, coordinating with Naima and the other wives and girlfriends to make sure Stella is holding it together.

Brock and Trent do the same for Sonny.

It's a team effort in all respects and it keeps them all busy and out of trouble. Or somewhat

At least until the day where the videos stop coming.

It's the day after they beat Clay to a pulp so tempers are already on edge. The last video cutting out with with no sign of the abuse stopping anytime soon.

So when no new news comes in the next day at the normal time the waiting becomes too much

As the day stretches on Sonny goes off on Trent over some lack of response to an issue. Jason tries to intervene and somehow ends up pissing Brock off which is an impressive feat. Even Ray starts verbally sniping and things appear ready to self destruct.

Blackburn finally shuts it down and Mandy has to admit she didn't actually know he could raise his voice that loud.

She knows what is driving this melt down. The question burning on everyone's mind as they wonder if he is even still alive or did they go too far while they were beating the ever living shit out of him. And if he is still alive just how bad is he?

Clay makes a reappearance exactly 42 hours later. But who's counting.

The video starts rolling and as in every other video they drag him out and plop him down on his knees and the entire room collectively exhales and then collectively cringes.

For the first time he looks awful. Bruises have ripened spectacularly, his eye is swelled shut and the way he squints at the camera with his one good eye and hunches over slightly says nothing good about the level of pain he is in. Still he straightens up and manages to stop swaying after a moment and resumes his usual neutral expression while the camera rolls.

Trent swears under his breath.

Mandy feels like doing the same but not because of Clay's condition. Honestly she's surprised it's taken this long to get here.

No, as the video rolls she begins to realize there is something else off that she can't put her finger on. All of her spidey senses are tingling, screaming at her. Something is different this time than the other videos.

When they announce he will be hanged Clay stares through the TV screen right into her soul.

His expression doesn't change its the same hard mask he has had in all the videos but hers does. She looks away so that no one will see the brief cracks that appear in her mask.

She looks back just in time to see Clay make eye contact with the camera and apologize.

He's sorry.

What the hell does have have to be sorry for.

They are the ones who have failed him.

It becomes clear a second later.

Apparently Clay has had enough of playing along with their games. As the talking winds down he launches off the floor, shouldering into the nearest person, and making an admirable attempt to kill them considering he doesn't have hands or feet to work with.

It's brutal, it's animalistic, it's a man with absolutely nothing to lose. She looks away as the camera catches him smashing a guys head into the cement floor. The bright splash of red blood that sprays out is a far cry from the monotone videos she normally watchers through the ISR or night vision lenses and its even further from his behavior in every other video where he has born their abuse with stoic patience and self control.

Now he continues to fight long after the battle is lost.

She flinches harshly as they start to gain the upper hand and begin laying into him even as he keeps on struggling and resisting and making it so much worse than this needs to be. Surely he has to know he can't over power them all at this point.

"What is he doing?"

She can't keep the surprise and skepticism out of her voice. Everyone else around her is watching the altercation nonplussed and almost approvingly. She doesn't get it.

It's Trent who manages to answer, standing behind the chair to her left with his hands clasped on its back so tightly his knuckles are practically translucent.

"He's going out on his terms," he swallows bitterly and then adds, "It's better than what awaits him."

Sonny mutters a hoarse but fervent "Attaboy" even as Clay gets put down hard.

She stares at them all incredulously. Not entirely sure they aren't rooting for a different outcome here than she is here. It reminds her again how different they all are.

They may have ended up in the same place, in the same life, but they are not the same.

Case and point, if it was her in Clay's position she would be taking her chances waiting till the last possible minute and hoping for someone to work a miracle. The haunted, almost sickened, expression on Jason's face makes her think he might be wishing his boy would take that approach right now.

The only problem is she is the one supposed to be working that miracle and right now her best efforts are just as futile as Clay's efforts to overcome his guards.

Mandy doesn't know if Bravo will ever forgive her if she doesn't find him and they have to watch him get executed tomorrow. Doesn't know if she will ever forgive herself for that matter.

She is not oblivious to the fact that they sometimes call her the good idea fairy, every once in a while its in genuine appreciation of her mission packages but more often than not it's done with a different more tongue in cheek implication.

Right now she would give anything to have any sort of idea at all. She feels like she has exhausted every trick, every tool in her toolkit and come up completely empty.

And now she only has 24 hours.

Actually less than that when you factor in the travel and mission prep time necessary for the team to get to wherever the hell he is, whenever the hell she finally figures it out.

It's not enough.

The analytical process is supposed to be slow and methodical and composed. It's supposed to be an exhaustive process of evaluating, planning, re-evaluating, collecting information, evaluating, processing, analyzing, re-evaluating, and then sometimes starting all over again just to be sure.

It can take months, sometimes even years, if you truly want to get good predictions, accurate estimates, and effective risk assessments.

She has less than a day.

So about the only thing she is certain of right now is that Clay is probably going to die.

Beyond that she is basically grasping at straws and throwing things up in the air and hoping like hell something sticks. She might as well give her flow charts and maps to a preschool class and tell them to go nuts. It would amount to about the same thing she's got.

But with nothing to lose and no time to waste she throws herself back into it.

She reviews more evidence, more charts, and more linguistic analysis.

Somehow seemingly every linguist in the country who has reviewed the dialogue at one point or another this week can only narrow it down to a conflicting list of 2-3 different regions depending on which one you asked. Accounting for the full range of diverging opinions only lets her narrow it down to 7 different countries.

Apart from that no one is talking. None of her sources. None of her contacts have anything to provide.

There's no useful chatter. No distinct cultural characteristics or landmarks visible. The men in the videos are careful to disguise their faces, except for the few who blatantly show themselves apparently confident that they can't and won't be identified. They are unfortunately being proven right so far as the facial recognition has come up empty handed too.

Maybe with a few more weeks, she could do some supply chain analysis. Figure out the equipment needed for this kind of operation. Track the ongoing flow of money and goods and resources into the regions of interest to determine a normal pattern flow and any abnormalities.

Or she could put together an in depth threat assessment of each of the possible regions and create an association matrix of the key players. That would identify some key suspects of interest and with some digital surveillance, or better yet get real boots on the ground, they could listen in until someone reveals something useful. Hell in a perfect world she could go straight to the source herself and spend some time cultivating new sources in the area.

The problem is this isn't a perfect world and all of that those options take too much time. Time Clay doesn't have and time that seems to be slipping away faster than Mandy thought physically possible.

It's now getting dangerously close to the timeframe where even if she figures it out it won't matter.

Slowly one by one the guys filter back in the early hours of the morning. She isn't sure if she has ever seen them look this haggard and that's saying a lot when you are talking about their extending gruelling missions. She doesn't imagine there was any sleep that occurred last night, and probably minimal over the last week.

Brock is the last to arrive and his face sours and twists when he glances up at the clock as he arrives. They all know just as well as she does what a few more hours will mean in terms of their ability to get to Clay. The guys huddle up, prepping equipment just in case, reviewing videos and facts just like her, hoping for a miracle.

For the first time it's not distracting, there is no blame thrown, they are all focused on the only thing that matters right now...Clay.

Work the problem Mandy.

She refuses to be defeated simply because whoever this has a decent grasp on technology and knows how to harness the anonymity of the internet.

Except she is being defeated.

She is failing him.

No. She admonishes herself sternly. There is no time to go down a rabbit hole of self pity right now. This isn't about her and there is still time to change things.

There is a problem to solve and logic and reason to solve it with.

She just needs to keep moving. Keep her foot on the gas and her tires spinning until something finally gets traction. It is going to come, it has to.

With no better ideas she rewatches the series of videos again. Mandy's already watched them more times than she can count this week. She can practically narrate them word for word now.

She is in the middle of watching Clay get beat to a pulp for what feels like the thousandth time when she sees it.

She probably missed it the first nine hundred and ninety nine times because she was too busy cringing as the strikes land fast and furious. But now she has little emotion left to spare and Clay getting beaten to a pulp seems so inconsequential compared to what awaits him.

She rewinds and watches it one more time, thinking maybe she was just imagining things. Or that it's just a trick of the light. But it isn't.

Her adrenaline starts pumping. Could this be it? Could this be the break they need?

She has to rewind the video and it takes her several tries to pause it at the right moment. She leans in squinting. Trying to clarify the zoomed in image to get the best possible view.

And sure enough there it is

Son of a bitch

Right there, in the mass of chaos and confusion as Clay is tackled to the ground and blows start flying, there's a moment where an arm comes into the screen. A body that wasn't previously in the frame enters, just his shoulder, arm and part of his torso as the dude leans in to get a better angle to throw his punch.

As this new entrant pulls back from connecting with Clay's face his sleeve rides up with the momentum of his swing and exposes a few inches of his wrist and lower arm and more importantly a black splotch that looks suspiciously like a tattoo.

At home in America that wouldn't be nearly as exciting a discovery because ink like that is far too common.

But in this part of the world, in this type of culture…. Not so much.

There are limited guys in any of these groups with permanent body art because it's taboo. Usually someone sporting one in circles like this means they are late in life converts who likely were not born and raised in the area. Chances are whoever this is is an expat, an import from another country, maybe even a homegrown terrorist who left the US to go join in on the action.

The best part, the part that is making her almost giddy with excitement, is that those fanatics aren't usually subtle and pretty much always end up on all sorts of radars before they head overseas meaning someone has to have a file on him. Someone, somewhere might be able to recognize that tattoo.

She gets on the phone, hands shaking and she starts dialing. She can feel the thrill of the chase reigniting, the promise of one thing leading to another and puzzle pieces that she _can_ finally make fit.

And then just like that, a few calls later, she has a name and more importantly a best guess of the region Mr. Tattoo is believed to be operating out of. Just like that. As if she hasn't been trying to do that for the last 8 days.

She feels alive again, reinvigorated and fired up in a way that all the coffee she has consumed in the last 48 hours couldn't even hope to achieve.

Her brain rejoices in finally firing at full speed again after slogging through mud and banging her head against the wall for so long. It's rapidly making connections, leaping from one premise to another, and jumping so far ahead that she can't type fast enough to keep up. She searches desperately for the information that will confirm what she suspects. And it does, everything matches up and she steamrolls full speed ahead and before she knows it she has it down to a country, maybe even a specific city in said country if she wants to gamble and play the odds.

But it's still too big. Too many buildings. Too many possibilities. She still needs a way to narrow it down further to find the exact location for the team to go to.

She can feel the tendrils of doubt, the pressure of the clock, lurking in the background but she vehemently ignores it all pushing forward and refusing to be derailed now.

And then a final idea sparks. One that she doesn't know will work or not but if it does … If it could...

"Lisa" - she says with a quiet urgency, purposefully keeping her voice low enough that the team can't hear.

"This is a long shot, and I don't want to get anyone's hopes up" she glances meaningfully in Bravo's direction, "but can you get me any sort of drone footage of this area. Preferably something with with thermal capability?"

Davis's eyes light up, partly at the challenge and mostly with hope. Exactly the reaction she is afraid of. Lisa opens her mouth to say something. Then closes it, as if deciding she doesn't actually want to know and she nods. Setting off with purposes and a renewed spring in her step.

She can feel Blackburn watching the exchange with no small manor of interest from where he is on the phone briefing some higher up. He drifts over closer and she uses hand gestures to indicate the area she is thinking on the map. He raises an eyebrow, still listening to someone yammer in his ear.

"Yes, sir…. Yes, we are doing everything we can but our options are limited….No you don't have to tell me that the death of SEAL on the front page news would be bad publicity. I'm fully aware. I'm also fully aware it would be a goddamn tragedy for a few more reasons than that."

Now it's her raising an eyebrow as Blackburn hangs up the sat phone with force and tosses the brick scattering away across the table. He turns his full attention back to her, evidently done with that conversation and happy to focus his energy on more important things.

She glances over to make sure Bravo isn't watching and then quickly brings Eric up to speed. She watches belief and anticipation flare back to life in his eyes too he studies the pieces she has laid out and she wants so badly to spread that feeling to the rest of the team but she has to be sure first. Has to make sure it will work before she offers any kind of hope.

It might not matter anyways. She can't help watching the clock while Davis madly types away and starts doing the calculations in her head. Math has never been her strong suit. A problem that excel formulas and fancy calculators has always helped compensate for.

But this kind of math she can do.

6 hours remain. Just 360 minutes.

It's basically nothing when you are talking about what remains of someones life.

Assuming she is right on the location the team will need at least 4 to 5 hours flying time minimum.

She wonders how much time they need to plan and gear up and to get to the airbase. She is willing to bet they can make it happen pretty quick in this case. She knows Alpha is also marshalled and ready nearby to join at a moments notice.

But will it be enough? Will they be able to get there in time.

That's beyond her control now.

All she can do is get them the target with as much time as possible and hope for the best.

It has to work. She can feel it. It's going to work.

Come on Lisa…

"Here, its queued up"

Yes. Damnit Davis is a genius.

Mandy rushes over to the screen "Okay, zoom in to focus on this area. Great… now filter for these parameters…"

There's no time to explain or experiment. She just has to go with her gut and hope it works.

Lisa pulls up the requested time frame under the specific filters and lets it roll.

Okay. so far so good. It looks promising.

"Can you split screen and do the same for another day where a video was uploaded… perfect. okay now roll them side by side."

The moment of truth….

Holy shit.

It worked. It actually worked.

"Zoom in there" She points to the screen where a red flash of light appears and disappears rapidly, a brief beacon of hope, that she hopes she isn't imagining.

Play it again.

"There."

She can barely get out one simple word as a rush of victorious excitement and jubilation assails her. Now she doesn't care if Bravo hears her. She wants them to hear her. Wants them to experience the same wave of triumph she is riding all the way to go rescue their guy.

She points emphatically.

"He's there. Clay is there."

0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0


	5. Chapter 5

0-0-0-0-0-0-0-

It's 104 degrees out, the middle of the freaking day, and Jason made the mistake of wearing too many layers of clothes under the finishing touch of some very functional but completely not very breathable equipment. A steady stream of sweat drips slowly down his face and collects at his collarbone which is only slightly less annoying than the small river swiftly flowing down his back and pooling at his waistline in a disgusting wet patch that continues to grow as the sun continues to beat down on his face and works to burn any and all exposed cracks it can find.

Right now the harsh UV rays are the closest thing to a threat they have encountered all day but years of working in this climate and years of enduring politically minded pointless missions lets him ignore the extreme danger and walk sedately in line with Senator Whatshisface carefully aligned between him and Ray. The senator doesn't appear to be at all frustrated with the heat or the situation and is enjoying ambling at a snail's pace and pausing to study every nook and cranny he can find. When he stops to study the 14th archway that looks exactly the same as the first 13 he examined intensely Jason can't resist leaning around him to share an exasperated glance with Ray who just smirks and looks away before they both start laughing.

They reach the 15th archway and pause for what feels like the 100th photo op and Jason is really starting to wish he had worn sunscreen, or less layers, or hell just assigned someone else to this tedious task and gone on patrol like the rest of Bravo. I mean there was a good chance Sonny would have gotten himself court marshaled if he had to directly babysit this special, special man but at least Jason could have found some shade to escape the heat before having to deal with the fall out.

In perfect timing Sonny continues his barrage of radio chatter to insist Clay come join him to see an alleged doppelganger goat.

More of the freaking goats.

Now Jason is really wishing he had assigned Sonny to the protection detail, consequences be damned.

He isn't sure how the goat is supposed to resemble his blonde haired sniper but it does catch his attention when Clay doesn't respond to taunt and he feels a small shiver race down his spine catching and passing the latest bead of sweat on its downward descent.

He tries to push the concern away initially.

Tells himself there is probably a good reason Clay isn't responding. Possibly because Sonny has been blowing up the radio pretty steadily for the last 45 minutes and it wouldn't exactly be unwarranted for most of his teammates to just ghost him on principle now in an attempt to never again hear about another damn goat. But it's also Sonny and Clay, and if anyone is going to continue to enable Bravo 3, its their not so new, newest member, who somewhere along the line ended up as Sonny's co-conspirator in all things for better and for worse.

When the silence stretches on, even after a repeated goad from Sonny and then a more direct call out from Jason himself, Ray and Jason share a different kind of glance around their principal.

He tries not to overreact and focuses on the strong likelihood that Spenser will still be there waiting for them at the rendezvous point. Its unusual but not unheard of to lose coms with someone during a mission for any number of technical reasons, it could be as simple as interference or a dud battery keeping Clay from calling in his position. He fully expects to be annoyed, and relieved, when the kid is sitting there casually with that flippant grin, dismissing their concerns as an over exaggeration and giving some stupidly convoluted explanation of what happened to his radio.

Who knows maybe Clay decided to dispossess himself of his very classified, very secure and very expensive, communications device as a decoy again. Jason really thought the shit sandwich they got in for that trick last time had made it clear that it wasn't to be a repeat occurrence. But now he finds himself weirdly hoping that the lecture somehow didn't penetrate and Bravo 6 really was thick enough to do it a second time. He would take that over some of the less ideal and more worrying alternatives that his brain is helpfully starting to supply.

Without any discussion he and Ray pick up the pace, now actively working to hurry along the Senator and kiboshing stops at the 16th, 17th and 18th arch they pass. Jason isn't sure if Ray is experiencing the same nagging unease he is or if his seconds just had enough of enabling what appears to be an unhealthy obsession with Algerian architecture.

Either way when they arrive there is no sign of Bravo 6.

Trent, Sonny and Brock are all there and all waiting with various levels of worried expressions considering their teammate still hasn't checked in and is now the last one missing from the meeting point.

Jason begins to feel clammy, like the chills of a fever have set in making all the perspiration cold and uncomfortable on his previously hot skin.

He knows then but he still doesn't really believe it.

Not until after a few more moments go by and he has to give the order to search for their missing member.

Not until Ray and Brock, or most likely Cerberus, find the patch of bloody sand and the discarded helmet.

Then it truly hits him and the faint chill becomes a full submersion into icy water. The shock of the plunge goes straight through him and attacks his insides with thousands of tiny icy little daggers that steal his breath.

For an extended moment he is drowning in the shock of it. People are talking and he hears his name a few times but its all muffled and distant and he desperately tries to orient himself and focus around the unexpected onslaught of cold. His brain numbly tries to grasp on the information being relayed to him, the questions people are asking, the facts he both knows and doesn't know. Time is crucial so finally manages to swim his way to the surface and come back up for air, to order a coordinated sweep in two groups. There really shouldn't be many places Bravo 6 could have gone in a village like this surrounded by miles and miles of desert and a few other villages way off in the distance.

As he moves off with Trent and Sonny the chill remains deep at his core, completely untouched by the sun still beating down, and the exertion that previously threatened to overheat him.

They check and recheck every house and come up empty handed. Cerberus fails to get a scent beyond the evidence they already found.

They move on to cover several other neighboring villages. Still nothing.

By then ISR has a lead on a direction, a larger city that he may have been taken to. They spend the entire night searching, more to make themselves feel more useful than anything else.

The manhunt continues on into the next day and night but they don't find even the slightest trace of their missing member. Not even someone they can connect to the disappearance and take in for questioning. It becomes very quickly apparent that the answers they need are not going to be found on the street level with direct action from their team even if no one wants to admit it. To return to base means a loss of control that no one is eager to cede but they are also reaching almost 48 hours in country with no rest on a minimally supplied mission and are definitely pushing outside the boundaries of what's safe for a 5 man team to walk into given all of those factors. Jason has never hated one of his own decisions more than when he contacts Havoc to arrange to return to base one man short.

Sonny's betrayed expression says it all and more.

Ideally by the time they get back, rest and resupply, there will be a new direction to search in, some new lead or new intel to point their direction when they go back out.

Ideally.

It becomes readily apparent that that isn't the case when they make it back to TOC and see a concerning amount of frustrated inactivity that doesn't suggest anybody is hot on any sort of trail. And no matter how many times he questions, rails, picks fights with Mandy, argues with or threatens Blackburn, they don't get the green light to go back out and _chase their tails until they knock over a hornets nest in the process_. Eric's words, as he bluntly, and not altogether inaccurately, paints a clear picture and lays down the law after Jason pushes one too many of his buttons and exhausts his seemingly endless supply of patience.

Instead they are stuck waiting on standby and as the days drag on with no sign of Clay Jason begins to wonder if this is what hell is. At least with Nate there was certainty. With this there is nothing. No closure. No idea if there man is alive or dead. And no leads to track him down.

When they hit the 72 hour mark Jason and Blackburn make the official MIA notification call to Stella. It's a first for both of them and he can't help but wonder if they did it right. If there is even such a thing.

It's not like Stella has anything to base it off. She's had a couple injury calls, and that one terrible call after the bombing, but this is a whole different ball game now. Did they give her too much hope, not enough hope? It's hard to tell because Jason doesn't know himself.

Missing In Action. He's always hated that label. It's a complete misnomer, a shitty sales job designed to imply a lack of certainty and provide the allusion that things are still ongoing. It suggests that a person is missing in the middle of the battle and that people are still out searching for them. It shouldn't apply to someone they left behind and don't know if or when they will ever see again. And it definitely shouldn't apply to a situation where they are sitting around doing jackshit to help get the person back. Jason's been around too long not to realize that after a certain point that's where it inevitably ends up in most cases, a dead end case that gets filed away until a new lead comes in. He knows there is a reason the notification gets made at the 72 hour mark, that Clay's chances of being found dropped off heavily after he reached that mark. He just can't help but think that this is Bravo and it should be different. They will make it different.

Blackburn is maybe of a different mind though and after they get off the phone Eric has the nerve to suggest, or question really, at what point the team will need to somewhat resume regular activities. He proposes that Bravo keep themselves busy training and perhaps running other small missions while they remain in the region waiting for further actionable intelligence that could be a while

Eric does it tactfully and gently, using fairly inescapable logic, and Jason still wants to punch him.

Its an urge he's never had with Blackburn before. Other CO's sure, but never Eric. Luckily he's had plenty of practice holding back with far more deserving assholes and he manages to just shake his head and walk away. His hands shake and his fingers are cold as ice and when he is finally alone and no longer has to be strong or in control he begins to shiver so hard that his teeth chatter.

Deep down he knows Blackburn is right they can't sit around forever waiting for an answer that may or may not ever come. He knows there have been times where people don't show up again for months or years, if at all. Case and point it took multiple years and the Taliban finally advertising Lucas Garner for him to be found. Logically he knows his team should stay busy and out of trouble in a meantime and that locating Clay is outside their expertise at this point. But emotionally, anything less than their full undivided attention on getting their teammate back feels like a betrayal. It feels too much like giving up and walking away, and Clay deserves better than that. He deserves to know that family doesn't walk away when things get tough.

On day four, just when Jason begins to think he might actually have to broach the idea with this team and consider the idea that they might be in it for the long haul with no answers coming any time soon, the videos start.

And while they do offer some hope in the form of a confirmation that Clay is in fact still alive and can still be saved, it's also an entirely different kind of purgatory. On some levels it's actually worse because he is still beyond their help and they can only guess at what horrors lie in wait for him every day apart from the few minutes they get a front row seat to everyday.

To his credit Clay doesn't give his captors anything. Not an inch. It makes Jason both proud and exasperated.

He's pretty sure the kid is holding up better than they all are. Spenser looks like he could weather this storm for however long he needs to, or at least longer than they can stand to watch. Jason silently urges him on. Just hang in there. Just need to hang in there long enough for them to find something.

Surely this video will be the one that gives a clue.

Or the next one.

Today will be the day Mandy and her people find something.

Except she doesn't and as frustrated as he is he can tell she is feeling all of that and more.

He watches their analyst unravel over the week just as surely as his team does. Drowning in the misinformation and dead end leads that take her nowhere combined with the weight of the expectations they can't help but keep reminding her about.

When the next video doesn't come Jason's imagination runs wild filling in the missing time and wondering if that was the end. If that last video is the last they will ever see of Bravo 6. He hates himself for being just a small part grateful that the torture ends here rather than a seemingly unending series of videos where the pain just keeps going and going for all involved.

But then a new video gets uploaded and it turns out there was always an end in sight.

The uncertainty is over and is worse than anything Jason's imagination came up with.

When he hears the word hanging Jason feels like he's being bathed in ice water all over again. He almost twists around, looking to catch Emma laughing after doing that ice bucket challenge she insisted they do to raise money for some cause. But she isn't there and he wraps his arms across his chest, desperately seeking warmth and trying to hold himself together.

When the kid apologizes it almost breaks him.

He knows no matter how this turns out that he is going to see that moment, be haunted by that moment for a long long time.

And probably the one that follows almost immediately after.

He watches Clay disappear under a sea of people and he's never been more disappointed.

Not in the kid. God no.

In himself. In them.

He knows what Clay is hoping for out of this spectacle. And Jason can't find it in himself to blame him for it even if it's going against every self preservation instinct he's tried to drill into the kid for the better part of 4 years.

He remembers telling him _You don't have to do it all alone. Do your job and do it well and let us take care of the rest. Trust us to have your back. _

Those words ring hollow right now.

So while he wants to somehow bark at the kid to stand down and stop being an idiot, he also gets it.

It's been 8 days and they haven't come for him. 8 days of him enduring who knows what behind the scenes and waiting, wondering when his team will come for him.

Meanwhile they haven't taken care of shit. They aren't breaking down doors. They aren't pulling in targets. Jason doesn't even know if _he_ has faith in them to find Clay in time anymore.

So he can't exactly blame Clay for giving up on them now. The fact that it's even come to this point is an indictment of everything Bravo stands for and it hurts on so many levels.

Clay doesn't end up getting his way and Jason is initially relieved but then as the clock start to tick down towards the other alternative he starts to wonder if he will soon look back at that moment and wish it had gone another way. Add another one to his list of regrets.

Because now the clock seems to be running away from them like a roller coaster hurtling downhill and picking up speed. Jason wants to get off this particular ride. Wants nothing more than for them all to get off before it reaches what's waiting at the end of the track.

Jason used to box in high school and often got his bell rung in the final round because he went out too hard at the beginning. His coach preached pacing and self control and working within your limits time after time to him and now there's a fantastic amount of irony every time Jason hears the same lectures come out of his own mouth on more than one occasion especially since Spencer joined the team. But he never could actually master it because going out slow meant the possibility of falling behind and having to catch up and he absolutely detested fighting from behind. Hated knowing you were down on points, and being tight on time in the last rounds to fit in the sequences necessary to make up that ground. His coach always told him to stop watching the clock, to just focus on what he can control, but what Mr. Sconney never understood was that Jason didn't need a clock or a bell. His brain always knew exactly how much time was left and exactly how infeasible it was for him to accomplish his task in that time frame. It was hard for him to put his best punches out in the ring when his back was against the wall and against the clock.

He is having the same problem now, because even though he's forced himself to stop watching the clock, Jason still knows intrinsically without even trying just how many minutes and hours are left for Clay. His uncompromisingly accurate sense of time and sequence has always served him well him well in the field. Allowing him to know exactly how long it was since his sniper left to get in position, or how many seconds before the carefully timed explosion will cause a distraction. Right now thought he would love to get lost in a timeless void and have no clue if it was day or night. Because it's the final round and they are rapidly running out of time.

Except it's not their backs against the wall. It's Clay's

But Jason isn't the same kid from highschool. He may not like fighting from behind but he's learned how to function in that environment. He is determined, against any odds, any opponent, and any clock, to make sure they get the chance to prove to the kid that his team has never given up on him. That they never abandoned him and that he's never been alone despite all appearances.

They are never out of this fight. Not until that final bell dings.

Jason sits with his brothers. The gear is packed. The mission prepped. Or at least as prepped as it can be when you don't even know where you are going or what the board looks like. They've come up with several contingency plans, designed for several variables and will just have to do what they do best and make it work if they get the chance.

They've done all they can do for now and it absolutely kills him now to wait. He's given a last update to Stella and then spoke to Naima who assured him she has it covered. That they won't let Stella watch if it comes to that. Stella is in Naima's capable hands. Or at least as capable as anyone can be to handle this situation. There is no handbook for sitting with someone and watching a clock that ticks down to the end of your loved one's life.

In a weird role reversal Bravo has essentially been designated to the same role as the wives on the home front. The only saving grace is that they have some hope of being called upon to do something, except its rapidly dwindling with every moment that passes.

They are all having to find different ways to cope with that reality.

Brock, for example staring at the clock with such desperation and deliberate attention that Jason can almost see the wheels turning inside his head. Likely doing the math on exactly how much travel time is required and just how close they are to it being too close.

Ray and Sonny are both praying, albeit to very different deities. Sonny stares intently and almost religiously at the cold metal he is cleaning in his hands, Ray focuses his petitions in a different direction.

And in the middle of the table Trent sits quiet and still, outwardly calm and confident to the end, something Jason probably takes for granted far too often.

In contrast his attention swings to Blackburn who sounds uncharacteristically frantic and is redder in the face than Jason's ever seen. The man is pacing while he argues on the phone trying desperately to get some sort of traction from higher up to intervene whether by ransom or by politics. Eric is fighting a battle in futility. No one will pay up. No one will sign a cheque to a terrorist. It's not going to happen. But Jason loves him for trying.

Blackburn eventually hangs up and then his head slumps forward, hanging for just a second trying to regain his composure. Within seconds his phone rings and someone is demanding an update. Jason has no interest in hearing exactly how not close they are to finding Clay so he turns his attention back to watch Mandy.

She really is Clay's only hope now.

He watches her type the computer and wishes this hadn't ended up on her shoulders. As much as they hold her to account sometimes he wouldn't want anyone to be in this position. He's not sure if she's ever had to deal with literally having the weight of someone's survival hanging on your shoulders.

His own poor choice of words has him wincing.

One thing he does know for sure is that kind of responsibility changes you. Alana told him often enough even though he never got around to admitting she was right soon enough. That's another one on his list of regrets that he will never get to change. He hopes she knows it now. Can see that he's doing the best he can to deal with those changes in healthier ways so they don't impact the kids.

A triumphant exclamation pulls him out of his own head.

"He's there. Clay is there"

A flood of heat and hope overwhelms him as if someone opened a damn and let everything they've been holding back for the last 9 days finally go.

Suddenly he is back in control. Back in purpose. His body is alive and warm and brimming with clarity as he quickly gets briefed and then hustles his team out the door to meet Alpha at the transport pad.

And then they are up and away.

Time speeds up again and this time he doesn't fight it. Now with purpose and direction time is just standing in his way as they go to get their man. Let those seconds tick faster, that's one second faster they are going to get there.

They can do it.

It's going to be close. But they can do it.

Hold on Clay. Just hold on a little longer.

He leans forward, as if he can make the bird fly a little faster with just his body weight. Now that the promise of action is so tantalizingly close he just wants to get there.

The bird vibrates beneath him, and pins and needles race up and down his legs as they seemingly thaw for the first time in over a week. He ignores the sensations, focusing on the only thing that matters, the city now visible ahead in the distance as they come out from behind the mountain cover.

They creep closer and closer, and he resists the desire to tell the pilot to fly faster. Time has distorted again and he swears the bird is going backwards even as his internal clock screams that Clay has only mere minutes left.

They approach from the east using the high rises in the industrial/business sector to effectively conceal their approach. They can't do anything about the sound but at least anybody paying attention won't be able to see what direction they are coming from. Unfortunately the buildings also obstruct their view of what lies behind, the open plaza that Mandy has pinpointed as the most likely sight for the public execution.

Most likely.

Jason can't even entertain the thought that there is still a margin for error. That they could come all this way just to be in the wrong location.

He shoves that doubt far away. There is no time for it now. They will cross that bridge when they get to it and it will be the least of their problems if that's the case.

It has to be right. It has to.

Its less than 200 yards from the house Mandy identified as the location of the videos.

It has to be right.

He can feel his men shifting around him. Leaning, binoculars and scopes out, trying to see around just as he is. Eager to get eyes on their boy.

Finally they come around the last tall building and have a clear view. Jason fumbles to get his binoculars locked onto the plaza. He focuses in and his heart drops at the same time Clay does.

Sonny lets out a disarticulate scream of rage next to him that has his left ear ringing and adds to the surrealism.

They are too late.

They are too fucking late.

But they aren't. They should still have 5 minutes.

And yet far below them and still a ways off they can see him shaking on the end of the rope, and they are too late. And too damn far away to do anything about it.

Any and all heat leaves his body with any remnants of hope. His brain is made dumb by disbelief, by the sheer fact that they came this far, this close, just to get the ultimate front row view. Once they had the location he was so sure. So sure they would make it. And they started early. They fucking started early.

He wants to look away but he also can't. Doesn't know what to say or think, or how to somehow refocus the team on what will now be a recovery mission instead of a rescue one.

He was so sure. And now ...

His other ear explodes, this time with the recoil of a shot fired way to close to his ear and he folds over groaning. Head throbbing from both sides. When he finally manages to sit back up he sees Ray still holding his rifle, eyes trained through the scope.

Jesus Crist Ray. There was no way he makes that shot. No way. Its a hail mary shot and he's far more likely to hit Clay or a bystander than do enough damage to the rope or the structure to do anything.

Except maybe the rosary beads were clicking as Bravo 2 let it fly because when Jason manages to raise his binoculars back up with he sees Clay lying on the ground instead of thrashing in mid air.

Holy Fuck.

He has to look again just to be sure. His dumbfounded brain is struggling to determine what this means, what it can hope or believe right now.

He keeps his binoculars trained on the still form willing him to move or show any signs of life.

Brock, Trent and Sonny lean forward and start laying cover fire as finally get into range for the rest of their weapons and then finally they are overhead another minute later.

Clay still lies unmoving on the stage and Jason's throat is shut tight like a vice as he squeezes the words out "Execute, Execute Execute."

Alpha and Bravo launch over the sides of the two birds on rapid descent ropes under the heavy cover fire laid from above. They drop into the chaos of the square that Ray's show has created and cause some chaos of their own.

Jason leaves the rest of his team and Alpha fighting, massacring really. The conscientious observers flee from the scene all around them. As much as it disgusts him to call them "innocent" they let them go focusing on the actively engaged targets. The number of armed guards who remain should have posed more of a problem but seem to be having trouble keeping up with the rapid turn of events. Jason can hardly blame them, he is as well. They probably figured their job was done once the prisoner was on stage and assumed positions that were great for watching, not so ideal for cover or any other tactical advantage. He hopes they regret it now as they are mown down by the better trained, better equipped adversaries who have seemingly dropped in out of nowhere.

"Trent on me."

He doesn't wait for his medic to catch up as he sprints through the somewhat clear lane to the stage and to the inert form on it. He ignores everything but the body on the boards, lying face down where it fell and still not moving. Jason doesn't wait for cover or to be sure the way is clear, any other day he would ream out whatever idiot did what he just did, but today he just trusts the two teams to handle it and makes a bee line.

He throws himself to his knees beside Clay. The noose is still around his neck securing the black fabric firmly in place. Jason is absolutely terrified of what lies beneath. Doesn't even want to touch it until he knows which scenario he is dealing with.

He reaches out with shaking fingers, grasping Clay's wrist, not sure if he is prepared for what he will find. Were they too late. Could Ray's miracle take them all this way just to fail now.

It takes him a second to focus on anything past his own thundering heartbeat that but when he finally does he turns without moving his hand from where it can feel a faint rapid thrumming and shouts back to Trent who has finally caught up and is making his way up onto the stage.

"There's a pulse!"

Goddammnit there's a pulse.

He's alive

It galvanizes him into action. Now he has no qualms about anything, reaching out quickly to try to start loosening the noose. He's alive, they just need to get him air now.

A sharp cry from behind stops him before his first tug.

"Don't!"

He swivels around, thoroughly confused, and stares at his medic incredulously.

Clay is deathly still. Probably not breathing and has been without air for God knows how long and he doesn't want him to take it off.

Trent is out of breath and slides in next to him, already pulling out equipment as he gasps out an explanation.

"Neck could be fractured... Need to secure it."

Fuck. Jason knew that.

He really did.

Fuck.

He should have slowed down and thought for a second.

He drills his men all the time smooth is slow, slow is fast. He knows that goddammit he just has a hard time applying it to medical situations when his men are hurt. Thankfully Trent is nothing if not methodical, no matter the situation. His practiced hands slide down efficiently to find and secure the Cspine, even concealed underneath the dark fabric. Holding tightly he finally nods to Jason.

"Ok, slowly pull that off."

His clumsy fingers struggle against the insane amount of tension in the rope, even severed, and after several seconds and several expletives and forcing himself to go slower than he would like, he finally manages to work the rope loose enough to come up and over Clay's head.

Another set of hands joins them, as Brock crouches down on Clay's other side and slowly begins easing off the black fabric, tugging it gently out from under Trents hands and then all the way off.

"Roll him. Nice and easy….1, 2, 3." Jason and Brock follow instructions, easing Clay over onto his back while Trent continues supporting his neck. Now they get their first full glance at what the hood was hiding.

It isn't pretty.

Jason's gaze travels up from already vibrant bruising forming at the base of his neck and sticks on the already very distinctive, very dark V shaped furrow where the rope dug into his skin just below his jaw.

Tearing his eyes away from that with some effort he continues up to study the blue, almost purple tinged lips, the dark bruising under his eyes, and the general puffy skin that almost makes his features unrecognizable.

Brock is all business, continuing to follow Trent's instructions even as Jason sits frozen. Bravo 5 carefully threads the neck brace under Clay's head and brings it up around Trent's hands to secure it.

"Not too tight. It's gonna keep swelling, that's it"

He and Trent work in perfect random and Jason feels like he needs to step back to get out of the way. But he also can't make himself.

Now sliding his arms out carefully Trent grabs the oxygen bag, showing the first sign of haste.

He pumps a couple times and leans over to listen. Muttering to himself.. "come on.. come on.."

Jason watches Clay's chest rise faintly in response to the forced air and takes some solace in the fact that air at least still seems to be able to get through.

But then it remains still while they all watch.

Trent pumps a couple more times ..."Come on, come on Clay… Breathe!" The medic rubs hard on Clay's sternum trying to stimulate a response.

Jason finds himself silently chanting it as well. Come on, come on.

Sonny is by his side now. Staring with all the intensity in the world as if he can physically will the man's chest to rise on its own.

Trent squeezes again and Jason can tell he is starting to worry.

Jason is trying to remember previous times Trent has talked about oxygen deprivation

It came up after they got Sonny back from the tube and amidst some jokes about Bravo 3 not having many brain cells to lose. Trent, overly tired, had missed Clay's sarcastic tone and gone on an educational lecture about the amount of oxygen stored in the body.

Jason had only partially listened but he could swear the medic said a person could go around 8 minutes without oxygen before brain damage occurs.

How long did it take them to land? To fight to get to him? Jason's internal clock tells him it was too long.

Trent is still muttering as he pumps two more times. "Come on Spenser don't make me CRIC you"

It's the closest thing Jason's ever heard to a prayer come out of the man's mouth.

2 more pumps….

Trent sighs, "Brock grab the CRICkit." He lifts the oxygen bag and discards it. Putting his fingers back down to check the pulse while he waits.

Suddenly there is a wheezing whistle from below his arms.

It's faint and sounds mostly non functional but it's a distinctive attempt to breathe.

Clay's entire chest heaves and another more successful whistling inhale happens, this time a little louder. It's jerky. It sounds horrifically painful and you can tell the amount of struggle it's taking to get any air in and on top of that it's questionable if any is even actually getting in. But he is breathing

Son of a bitch. He's breathing.

Trent straps on an oxygen mask and cranks it on full blast. Finally exhaling some of the tension and taking a second to share a grim smile with the rest of his team.

"Not entirely sure that his airway is going to hold up. But let's get moving and I will see what I can do on the way."

The team efficiently works a backboard under their man. It doesn't escape anyone's notice that they were doing this exact thing for Clay not too long ago. Once he's secured Sonny and Brock lift the board, walking alongside Trent to bring him over where the chopper has landed for exfil in the loading zone cleared by Alpha a few dozen yards behind the stage.

It leaves Jason and Ray on the platform alone, overlooking the field of desolation they left in their wake to get here. Jason finally stands but just as he goes to follow the litter he realizes the noose is still dangling at his side, clenched tightly in his right hand.

He stares at it, partially sickened, partially fascinated. Just a simple rope, but turned so efficiently into such a vile weapon. He studies the knot, and then barely two inches above it a frayed edge where Ray's bullet somehow found its target and severed the rope. It would have been just a few inches above the top of Clay's head. Just one slight wind variation from a headshot. He looks up to find Ray standing, watching him, and when Jason's looks up his number two's mouth hardens into a grim determined line. He meets Jason's eyes and Jason isn't sure he likes what he sees there. A turbulent mix of apology and regret, definitely not the pride and triumph of an impossible shot somehow made. He's seen that look before on the rare occasions when Ray misses his shot.

And if he wasn't aiming for the rope then…

Oh.

Oh fuck.

He opens his mouth, and then closes it again.

That's a conversation to be had later, preferably over many, many beers. What a fucked up situation they found themselves in that his 2IC had to even make that kind of decision. This could tear the man up just as surely as the whole last rites thing did. Jason resolves not to let that happen again but they will have to cross that bridge at a later time. For now Jason has other things to worry about. He drops the rope in its place, clasps Ray on the shoulder and follows after Trent.

When he clambers on board the bird he doesn't like what he finds. Trent is mid argument with Sonny and is shaking his head angrily "I have no idea how long he went without oxygen. Or what that will mean. I'm not even sure he is getting enough air right now. But I don't want to trach him except as a last resort"

They are all at the end of their rope. Frazzled and beyond mentally exhausted after the longest week and now the most up and down mission with the most insane twists and the most person stakes, that Jason has ever experienced.

Thankfully conversation quickly dies out and they all just watch Clay's chest sporadically rise and fall with broken, aborted attempts to bring in enough air. Willing just one more wheezing inhalation after another even though they hurt just to listen to.

Trent takes a more scientific approach, using his stethoscope to ensure air is actually getting through to Clay's lungs and checking his pulse, and eyes for a response. Jason winces when the medic pulls up Clay's eye lid and he catches sight of the pink and red patches where the whites of Clay's eye should be. Burst blood vessels. It's the most basic reminder of the extreme duress his body was under at all levels and affecting all parts and for some reason he finds it more disturbing than the hitching wheezes or the thick scarlet line under his chin.

Evidently satisfied with Clay's vitals for now the medic cracks several ice packs, carefully placing them on the hot inflamed skin that continues to swell. Jason doubts it will do much for the internal swelling that is likely the bigger problem, but its worth a shot. If they can just get him to the hospital without Trent having to do midair surgery he will chalk that one up as a win. Trent places one more, higher up and then suddenly Clay is awake. And fighting.

His hands come up to pull at a rope that isn't there. His legs thrash and his breathing becomes even more erratic. His red coloured eyes dart around unsure, wild with panic, and don't seem to actually focus on anything or anyone.

Now its chaos. Trent is shouting at them to keep him still. Sonny and Jason try pin his shoulders and chest while Brock and Ray hold the lower limbs, but the desperate man fights back with surprising strength.

Trent tries to talk him down, vehemently imploring him to calm down before he does more damage.

"Clay you are alright, Calm down. Just breathe. You can breathe"

There is no difference.

Bravo 6 reaches up to claw at his throat. Eyes straining. Blood vessels bulging through his forehead and neck as he scrapes and pulls at whatever he can reach near his neck.

Jason shifts his efforts to trying to detach the frantic man's hands away from his damaged neck, away from the ice packs and the neck brace carefully positioned there.

"You're alright Clay. You're safe. You can breathe. Just calm down." He echoes Trent but gets a similar non response.

Trent swears and finally sighs and says "hold on, I'll get a sedative. It's not a great idea, but neither is letting him continue like this"

Jason nods, still doing battle with Clay's hands. He capitalizes on one split second where Clay's hands lose their grip slightly and Jason manges to unpry them from his neckbrace, getting them free but they flail outwards before he can secure them. Reaching, grasping and finding purchase on the front of his tac vest. Clay locks on, holding onto Jason with a surprising amount of strength, pulling the mag pocket towards him.

Now his eyes lock onto Jason with a sudden clarity. The fear and emotion in them is like a punch to his gut and Jason suddenly feels the urge to go back and make sure they got every living soul from that village and every surrounding one for miles.

Jason just keeps repeating the same mantra "You're OK. We have you. You're safe" He isn't sure if Clay can even hear him but his eyes stay glued to Jason's face and there is maybe a hint of recognition there and a gradual calming and after a minute or two the rest of him relaxes allowing the rest of the team to release their holds on his various limbs and Trent to gratefully put away the syringe he prepared.

Clay's chest continues to heave. His entire body practically convulsing as it strains to take each jerky breath of air.

Without warning his grip loosens and his hand is about to fall but Jason catches it with his hands and squeezes it between his own. He wants it to be a tactile reminder that the man is alive. That's he's safe and with his team.

Clay's eyes drift partially shut, staying open just a slit.

Trent leans over and tries to get a response "Clay can you hear me?"

He doesn't get one.

If Clay is still aware he doesn't show it in anyway. It seems to be taking all his focus and energy to continue pull in one awful whistle of air at a time and he stays that way for the last few minutes of the flight until the chopper finally lands.

Medics swarm them and Jason loses track of the conversation as Trent and the paramedics shout words like arterial obstruction, stagnant hypoxia, spontaneous respiration, and resuscitative measures at each other to be heard over the noise of the blades. He runs alongside the gurney across the hospital roof, down the elevator and through several hallways until they finally force him to let go at a set of double doors that demarks the ER. He lets go and cringes when Clay's arm drops limply down and dangles off the side of the gurney. The double doors swing open and they wheel him through and then the swing back and forth offering a smaller and smaller view of his lifeless arm further and further in the distance until finally they swing shut and stay shut and Clay is back beyond his grasp again.

0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0

_Well that was basically a small novel in a chapter. But I figured there wouldn't be any complaints if you avoided having to wait for another update to find out what happened to Clay. _

_Also I stayed up way too late finishing this so the brain wasn't super sharp on the reviewing phase. please excuse the few extra typos that im sure are hiding somewhere in there._


	6. Chapter 6

_I really had no intention of writing this chapter. You have all your amazing reviews to thank for sparking this inspiration that overtook me on my lunch break at work and quickly led to getting you an extra chapter out of the deal. One more wrap up chapter to come after this. _

0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0

Her phone rings at 4:58 in the morning, a sudden shrill noise that brings her back to awareness quickly and suddenly in the dark of her bedroom.

Years of doing this, being both a team wife and a mother, means she barely flinches when she looks at the clock and realizes what time it is.

Her heart rate does speed up though when she determines that it isn't the expected noise of a small child that woke her early and the second ring has her sucking in a sharp breath and reaching for the device with no small amount of trepidation.

Her anxiety eases slightly when she sees Ray's name on the call display but even still her stomach doesn't release fully all the tension because it's still too early for him to be calling.

Ray is always too considerate about the time change even though she's told him on numerous occasions that she would rather he calls, anytime, anywhere than not be able to. She would way rather wake up to hear from him than spend more time in that unknown period between calls where she doesn't know if or when she will hear from him again. It's already been 4 days since she last heard from him, which is unusual but not unheard of. Sometimes missions go long or their schedules don't align, she knows that, knows it well, but that doesn't mean she isn't reassured to finally hear from him now.

She presses the button to answer and leans over in bed, pulling a pillow into her stomach. Many years of having an empty side of the bed has led to tricks like this that can fool her mind into making her feel secure and held. If she pretends hard enough she can imagine he is here in bed with her holding her while they talk.

When she hears what Ray has to say, what he wants from her, the pillow isn't enough to comfort her. It's not even close really.

Somedays this life they live takes more than it gives. Somedays she hates it with a passion.

She tries to take a moment to feel grateful for Ray's safety, for the rest of the team's safety but it rings hollow and selfish considering it doesn't include Clay and considering what the rest of this day is going to bring for Stella.

Then, knowing Blackburn and Jason are waiting for her, she hurries to get dressed and calls her Mom to come watch the kids. It's a long 15 minute wait and then her mom is at the door, surprisingly bright eyed for this early hour, and just shakes her head sadly and gives Naima a hug on the way out.

Its barely 6:00 am when she arrives at Clay and Stella's apartment, thankfully a little too early still for anyone to be out and about in the hallways and wondering why she is lurking outside the door with a tray of coffee and tea, multiples of each and practically the entire bakery in a bag, because she couldn't decide what Stella would feel like in this situation and even now her Dad's upbringing won't let her show up empty handed.

She sends a text to Ray and then waits. Within seconds she hears the phone ring inside in response and hears movement to indicate Stella is up and answering it.

Naima waits until she hears Stella hang up the phone, and then a little longer wanting to give her a minute to compose herself. But she doesn't hear anything. No cries. No noise. Nothing and then she starts to worry and can't wait any longer to knock.

Stella opens the door and stares blankly at her visitor. Doesn't ask why she is here at this time, or how she knew, just silently holds the door open and allows her to enter.

She places the hot drinks down and goes to give the woman a hug but Stella carefully steps back holding up a hand gently and says "it's ok. I'm ok."

Naima isn't sure if she is trying to convince her or convince herself.

Regardless she follows Stella's lead, stepping back carefully and handing her a tea instead.

If there is anything she's learned over the years is that no person reacts the same to the calls they all dread. You may think you have a plan in place or that you know what you will do, but all that goes out the window pretty much immediately when it actually happens.

So instead she settles down into a chair giving her space and time. She waits for Stella to say something, anything, that will tell her where her friends head is at and how to help.

Finally when it becomes apparent no further conversation is forthcoming she offers,

"Do you want me to call anyone?"

"No….It's ok"

Stella looks around the room as if searching for something she can't find.

"I just need to... I just need to go get ready for work."

Naima hopes she somewhat manages to hide her flabbergasted expression.

She can't actually mean that. Stella can't actually have any intention of going to try to lead a lecture minutes after finding out her boyfriend went missing on a mission and has been AWOL for three whole days. That he may not even still be alive

When it becomes clear that Stella intends to do exactly that, she can't help herself from asking the question

"Are you sure you are up for this?"

Stella gives a nod, staring at her hands wrapped around her cup and the muffin she selected from the bag and put on a plate but hasn't actually touched.

"Yes, life goes on right. And until we know one way or another. Might as well stay busy."

Naima can't exactly argue with that. Even though Stella's strained tones and white knuckle grip doesn't quite match the cavalier attitude she is shooting for.

And sure enough she goes and showers and gets prepared to go to work, just like it's any other day.

Naima doesn't bother arguing, she just sits and bides her time, figuring that at some point something will start to sink in or at some point Stella will change her mind.

She doesn't and when she grabs the keys to her car and goes to head out the door Naima can't stay silent anymore. She draws the line at letting her drive anywhere right now. She doesn't know if this is just a nasty case of shock or what the hell is going through her head but she doesn't want to find out the hard way. Not after Alana.

That loss sends a sharp pang through her. She wishes Alana was here to help with this now. She had the most experience of all them in this life and was a rock when anyone needed her.

Stella doesn't protest the ride which is perhaps the most telling sign right there that it's the right call. Naima drops Stella off with assurances that she will pick her up at the end of her classee and the strict instructions to call if she needs anything before then.

Stella just nods blankly, still eerily silent and only minimally responsive. She exits the car and slowly walks towards the nearest building.

Naima sits in the parking lot watching her go and then after a second of deliberation calls in the cavalry bringing Amy and Susan up to speed.

Stella may think she has it under control, she may even for now, but at some point she will need her friends, her allies in this life, and they will be ready when she does.

Without any discussion they all show up for dinner that night. If Stella is annoyed or upset about the intrusion she doesn't show it, but then again she isn't showing much period so it's hard to tel.l Amy brings Tacos and Susan bottles of tequila and they end up having a defacto Mexican night.

Stella continues to go through the motions, answering questions, participating in conversations, and when pressed providing vague assurances that things are ok and toting her party line that there is no point in worrying until there is something to worry about.

She is the picture or the perfect host, right up until they realize she's downed most of the bottle herself and she eventually ends up passed out on the couch when that finally hits her hard.

No one judges. There is after all no right way to handle this. No proper way to deal with what she is going through.

Amy stays with her overnight. And in the morning she calls to report that she dropped a very hungover but very determined Stella at work.

Stella calls Naima from work a few hours later to tell her about the video.

"Let me come pick you up."

"No, it's fine"

Its not fine. Its really not. Naima wants to say but before she can Stella repeats what's becoming her standard line.

"It's fine. I need to stay busy"

It's as if she's determined to prove to the world that she is strong enough. That she can handle this life no matter what it brings.

Naima takes a deep breath. Trying to figure out how to respond. She knows Stella is independent. Knows she is stubborn and has never wanted to be the typical Military wife. But she is starting to think it might be necessary to retract her previous statement about everyone dealing with things differently and wonder at what point she needs to be concerned. Naima is thoroughly torn between respecting Stella's desire to handle it her own way and a competing, somewhat desperate motherly instinct that wants to shake some sense into the younger woman until she gets it through her thick head that she doesn't have to do this alone. That she doesn't have to be "fine" for Clay, or for them, or for anyone else.

She says a prayer for wisdom or serenity or anything that will help her right now.

But then Stella saves her the trouble of figuring out how to broach the topic and throws an olive branch of sorts.

"They said… they said it's probably going to hit the news tonight."

He voice is lost and unsure for the first time, she hesitates and then softly asks

"Would you… could you guys watch it with me?"

Naima swallows around the lump in her throat. Both at the thought of that that video will look like and the toll it will take.

"Of course. Of course we'll be there."

Stella watches the video with an impressivelg stoic detachment.

The rest of them end up having more of a reaction than she does to watching Clay get roughly dragged onto the screen. Naima's eyes automatically start cataloguing, looking for injuries and signs of any maltreatment. The nurse in her is generally satisfied with the shape he appears to be in but the Navy wife knows better and can't stop staring at the large knife behind his head.

She knows he isn't going to use it. She already got the details from Ray. Made sure she was as prepared as she could be.

She wasn't prepared enough. It still doesn't make it any easier to see.

They all sit in silence for a long while after.

Nobody knows what to say.

How to comfort her.

Finally in a low, steady voice Stella asks… "they won't pay it will they?"

Naima just shakes her head, at the question and at the injustice of it all.

She gets the rationale behind the policy. Both morally, which is fairly obvious and the not so evident tactical side to it. She remembers complaining to Ray when other civilian hostages were being held and he presented another argument she had never even considered and suggested he was grateful for the policy because it made him safer. She remembers being astounded at that logic. Not really comprehending Until he asked her how many more soldiers would be grabbed if the US ever did start paying up. It would put a whole different type of target on their backs on top of what's already there.

It made a lot of sense. At least until its your loved one, your friend on that TV. Then it makes no sense at all.

Stella has to give up on work after that. While the news can't actually identify Clay due to his active military status, everyone that knows Stella, can make the connection. Everyone that's seen the photo on her desk or seen them together knows exactly who that is on his knees on the TV.

Now that she doesn't have her refuge of papers, and classes as distractions Stella starts to unravel. She tries valiantly to continue on with some semblance of her normal routine but now her only answer to the stress is to go for long exhausting runs that last hours at a time and cause them to worry every time. Amy has no shame and actually follows her by car a few times. Naima isn't sure if Brock taught her some super stealth driving tactics or what but Stella somehow never seems to notice she is being closely supervised.

Everyone pitches in to try and keep her occupied, keep her mind off of the seemingly endless wait and the very much apparent lack of progress.

They take her on outings with them, drag her to family events and even act as impressively intimidating body guards when Stella wants to go back to her office to pick up her research to work on from home. No one is dumb enough to come near the three glowering women whose eyes threaten immediate and severe pain to anyone stupid enough to try.

It's a team effort through and through. And the team is bigger than just Bravo. Members of Alpha, of Charlie, their wives and girlfriends, stop by for visits as well. Naima is even surprised to open the door to two of the women from the now long departed Echo team who still live in the area and come by to lend their support.

Once family, always family.

They come out in full force from all walks of life.

Naima remembers telling Stella that if she could get past the unpredictability and uncertainty to what lies deeper within this life she would never be alone in it. She is eternally grateful for all the ways people prove her right.

Stella seems grateful for the distractions but she still refuses to accept any sort of comfort, or open up about the situation to anyone. Instead she drives the conversation to be about their lives, their problems, their activities and everything and anything but her current reality.

Naima eventually just has to accept that Stella will handle it her way to whatever end.

The only sign she sees of that facade faltering is when she brings her kids over one day, trying to give Stella something wholesome and pure to hold on to only to have it backfire spectacularly. First there's the wistful expression on Stella's face watching them run and play that tells her better than any words that the reality of this is sinking in more than Stella let's on. That she has begun to realize any future with Clay, including kids, is up in the air and possibly even off the table all together.

And then in innocent, oblivious 3 year old fashion RJ makes the situation worse by asking exactly the wrong question. The same one he's been revisiting sporadically over the last few months. It's led to some interesting conversations between her and Ray. They know they shouldn't, but as their little baby becomes not so babyish anymore they both can't help but waffle a bit on their previous decision.

RJ looks up at Stella with those big brown eyes he uses to get his way at will and asks

"Will you give me a baby brother?"

Dammit. Naima cringes, horrified.

Stella looks stricken, like the toddler slapped her, but she recovers gamely and opens her arms allowing the little man to snuggle up next to her on the couch. She squeezes him tightly, unable or unwilling to answer when the tears start to run down her cheeks.

Naima busiest herself in the kitchen, giving Stella a moment and thanking God for small mercies that RJ somehow senses something is awry (unlikely) or just gets distracted with a new topic (more likely) but either way he miraculously doesn't push the issue.

When she turns back Stella has wiped away any evidence and steered the conversation to something less painful.

If only it was that easy to steer clear of other topics they would love to avoid right now.

Because the videos keep coming. And they keep having to find ways to get through them.

Maybe it would be better not to watch them, smarter, less painful. It probably would.

Except Naima knows she would be doing the exact same thing if she was ever in the same situation God forbid. The pain would be worth it for that little glimpse of her Ray.

Stella watches the videos unfold silently, shaking slightly at times, flinching at others, but apart from those muted reactions she keeps it composed even as they get progressively worse and worse.

The video viewing becomes a nightly tradition for the four of them where they huddle together to watch and then they eat and drink away their feelings afterwards. They never talk about what they saw or what happened on the video and they certainly don't talk about what it means or where this could be going.

Instead they get creative and focus on the theme nights they inadvertently started with the the Mexican tequila/taco fest. They move onto a Greek evening, a french wine and cheese night, and then a Sushi and Saki affair that they all regret the next morning.

It's the most dark and twisted type of girls night there ever was and anyone looking in from the outside might think they are crazy, or that this is vastly inappropriate.

Screw them.

You do what you have to do to get through things like this

Naima reminds herself of that and that it's worth the lingering headache that plagues her when she has to get up early to play mom in the mornings. You do what you have to do.

The team tries to check in as much as possible. Provide updates when they can. But to be honest there isn't much coming and it's beginning to become alarming.

At first Naima thought the lack of news was a good thing. That the team was busy, out in the field chasing down leads. Or that they had things on the go that they just can't share.

And then slowly she realizes they just don't have any updates to share.

That's when she begins to lose hope.

If the ransom won't get paid, and if Bravo can't find him ...what does that leave?

A final video apparently. A ticking clock. A death sentence in a truly barbaric fashion that she can't even begin to wrap her head around that's set for the next morning.

They all accept that their men could be shot, or stabbed, or blown up on any given day, but this? This wasn't even on her radar.

The Chinese food already set out for dinner grows cold on the table. The booze stay unopened. They sit on the couch for a long time. Simply being there. Unable to conceptualize that this is how it will end after all this.

Naima tries to plan. Tries to come up with some way to handle this. To try to make it better or help Stella through what this next night and morning could bring. Except she is coming up empty. She isn't equipped for this. She doesn't have anything in her bag of tricks for this.

Stella's phone rings shortly after. She answers it on autopilot and nods silently at the conversation for a few moments and then hands the phone to Naima without a word, speeding out the backdoor and escaping onto the patio.

If only it was that easy to escape this.

Naima hesitantly takes the phone and assures Blackburn that Stella did in fact hear what he said. That she saw the video.

He reiterates what she already knows.

It's going to be a long night

She tries to hold out hope, right up until her last conversation with Jason about 7 hours before the scheduled execution. He doesn't say much but his tone tells her to prepare for the worst. She can read between the lines of the contingency plans he tells her to make.

They all agree that no matter what happens, Stella doesn't see the video.

Naima will unplug the TV if she has too. Hog tie the woman and lock her down. Whatever it takes.

She hangs up and goes to find Stella out on the back patio, fingers gripping the patio railing and staring out into their garden.

Sensing company, Stella looks up at Naima with pain filled eyes and asks,

"He's not going to be back to finish this is he?"

Naima slumps down into the chair and her heart aches looking out at the garden trellises that are half way built. The bags of soil and bulbs waiting to be planted for the upcoming spring season.

Clay's maintained his surprising love for gardening over the last couple years but it's beginning to look like he won't be back to complete this particular project.

She finally coaxes Stella back inside and they sit and watch friends re-runs until late in the night. Naima couldn't tell you a single episode that played. Not a single one.

They don't even try to sleep, they just stare at the phone, willing it to ring. Willing there to be some miraculous update or intervention. Some 11th hour heroic. They put their faith in Bravo. In the men they know will fight and die to get to Clay no matter what. And still the phone doesn't ring. Still it's not enough.

The early morning comes and the desperation increases. They get down to minutes not hours. Stella paces, and cleans and organizes every cupboard in their condo twice, and then eventually she just stops and sits on the couch.

And they stare at the clock.

Naima isn't sure she has ever experienced anything worse than this. Not in countless military funerals and wakes, not in two child births, one of which she went through terrified and alone and not exactly smoothly. Not with Echo, not with Adam or even with the sudden unexpectedness of Alana.

Stella holds it together right until the clock runs out.

At 11:00 am she stands abruptly. Looking wildly around like a frightened animal about to bolt. Naima thinks for a second she is going to run. Run away from this life. Head for the hills like everyone thought she would a long time ago. Ironically it's too late for that. The damage has been done.

Instead Stella raises a hand to her mouth and then bolts on the opposite direction of the door. She makes it to the bathroom just in time and they can clearly hear the reality hitting her hard.

The harsh retching turns quickly into loud cries of rage and sorrow and items can be heard smashing off the counter onto the ground.

They give her her space until her screams fade into an oppressive silence and then when there are no signs of her exiting, Susan picks the lock with a surprising ease and they force their way in to find her slumped on the ground shaking with silent sobs

After a few minutes they manage to get her up and to bed where she lies with tears continuing to stream down her face. Quiet and composed in her grief once more Stella reaches over and pulls Clay's pillow over to cuddle with in a move that is all too familiar to Naima.

It breaks her heart because Clay won't ever occupy that position again. This pillow is no longer just a placeholder it's all Stella will have left of him.

Naima can't take it anymore. She's done with pretending this is ok. That Stella is ok. That she can handle this on her own. Done with respecting her boundaries and giving her space.

She lifts up the covers and slides underneath, shifting over to sit next to Stella's shaking form. She puts her arms around her, fully expecting the woman to shake it off, but she doesn't.

For a long time Naima just sits there holding her tight. Stroking her hair like she does for her Jameelah after one of her night terrors. She doesn't bother saying anything because there aren't any platitudes she can offer that wont be complete bullshit.

This isn't going to be ok.

This isn't going to get better.

It isn't a nightmare she will wake up from and forget about later.

Naima offers all she can right now, and it isn't much, but finally Stella cries herself into an exhausted slumber

She can hear Amy and Susan out in the kitchen, and the bathroom,cleaning up and then preparing to leave and when she hears the front door gently close all is peaceful and silent for a few minutes.

In the days to come there will be decisions and preparations and well meaning visitors and Stella will need to figure out how to go on with her life, whatever that means.

They need this moment. The calm before the storm.

Except life has other ideas and Stella's phone starts to ring.

Blackburn number pops up on the screen on the bedside table.

Naima sighs. Not wanting to wake her. Not for this.

She knows exactly what this call will say, and that Blackburn has to make it, but Stella is passed out cold and shows no signs of waking.

Naima doesn't have the heart to wake her for this.

She reaches out and silences the ringer in one small act of defiance against this horrible, shitty situation.

Letting the quiet stillness fill the room again and tightening her hold on Stella. Naima tries not to let her mind wander to what must have just occurred. She desperately tries to hold onto all the good memories of Clay. From the hapless rookie who stumbled into their lives with more than a few hiccups along the way to the wonderful man she was fortunate to get to know towards the end. The fearless pipehitter with the equally big soft side who carried her kids around for endless piggy back rides and stubbornly showed up with his arm in a sling to help Ray build a treehouse. Last year he decided he wanted to help coach Jammees baseball team, at least as much as his schedule would allow. The picture of him in that coaches uniform had been priceless and she'd kept her word about not telling anyone. Ray on the other hand, yeah that had probably been a lost cause from the start and sure enough the whole team had shown up to watch the last game of the season and relentlessly heckle the third base coach.

It isn't fair that Stella won't get that Clay won't get to become the amazing father he would have been.

The promise of a life unloved chokes her up and she swallows back the tears that threaten to overwhelm her now too.

She knows exactly why RJ's unfortunate question about a baby hit Stella so hard.

The pair were finally getting to that point in a relationship. The one where you'd start to believe that this is your forever. Where you stop thinking in terms of months and anniversaries passed and look ahead to exciting new milestones like marriage and kids. To think that those things are just a matter of time, until they aren't.

That's the life they choose unfortunately. To live in every moment, savouring it, knowing that it might be the last time. It makes her deeply more appreciative of every moment with Ray. Every time she gets to watch him interact with his kids she builds memories and stores them away so that if a moment like this ever comes she will have something left to hold on to. Something that will remind you that all the pain was worth it even though it doesn't feel like it right now.

She wishes Stella had more to hold on to. She wonders if what they had was enough. If the three years, give or take, of love and happiness and partnership, will outweigh the pain and regret of his loss.

She hopes it will be enough to help get Stella through the days to come. The phone call that will eventually have to be answered. The decisions to be made, and the strong likelihood that they won't be able to protect her forever from the reality of what happened. And how publicly it happened.

But for now Naima intends to give her this. This one moment of peace and quiet before she has to weather that storm. She tells herself it's the right decision as she ruthlessly silences Stella's phone again.

But life has other ideas. It won't be held at bay by her or anyone else. It takes no prisoners and accepts no surrenders in situations like these.

From outside the room Naima's phone begins to ring where she left it discarded somewhere in the living room. She lets loose a quiet kurdish swear word because an english one just doesn't seem strong enough for this situation.

Then she carefully extricates herself from under the covers and eases herself off the bed as gently as she can manage. Naima hurries out to the kitchen to try to find her phone before it wakes Stella.

She catches it on the last ring, has enough time to see Blackburn's name and then it stops.

She breathes out.

Not sure she wants to answer the call either. Admittedly not that upset that she didn't get there in time.

It starts to ring again and now she has no excuses left. She tells herself to man up. Blackburn is just doing his job. He has to make this call. Someone has to take it.

When she finally does she almost drops it.

And then almost trips over her feet on the way to the bedroom.

Her hands are shaking with adrenaline as she listens to Stella talk on the phone, watches her face come back to life and morph through a range of emotions that have been eerily absent for the last ten days.

And then there is another wait. Equally painful and equally hard.

Now Stella is a visible bundle of nerves, vibrating with excess energy and eager to go to him. Can't understand what is taking so long. Why there is so little information. She is a bundle of questions and complaints and worries that never once reared its head in the long hours before.

And then finally more details start to trickle in. Each one a small promise that things are progressing in the right direction. That this isn't just going to be some cruel joke that raised all their hopes up and then crushed them one more time just for fun.

Critical condition...

Stabilized in country...

En route back on a medical transport…

Landed on home soil….

ETA for transport to base hospital 45 minutes...

Finally, finally she drives Stella to see him, 18 long hours after the call she almost didn't answer the call.

When they get the hospital gates she does all the talking and connects Stella with the MPs who will escort her in. Stella seems incapable of speaking at this point and as they start to leave she walks behind them with a strange reluctance that Naima both understands and doesn't understand. Stella takes a few steps towards the main doors and then hesitates, turning and running back to throw herself into Naima's arms. And then they are both crying again. Happy tears, sad tears, the tears of two women who have come through a completely different kind of trench together.

She squeezes Stella tightly and then this time is the one to push the other woman away.

"Go. Go! He's waiting for you."

She heads home and holds her babies tight. And then a few hours later when Ray arrives home looking more exhausted and more drained than she's maybe ever seen him before, she launches into his arms. He meets her with equal passion, equal desperation and she isn't sure how long they both stand there, clinging to each other, drawing strength, drawing conviction, and desperately trying to persuade themselves that the horrors of the last ten days are behind them. Finally she leads him to the couch and settles in beside him, tightly, securely, fitting together effortlessly with a feeling that no pillow can replicate.

Then she looks up into his eyes expecting to see exhaustion, relief, satisfaction and instead she watches him break.

He folds into her chest and just weeps. Wordlessly, uncontrollably, and brokenly weeps in her arms She leans over trying desperately to hold him tighter, to soothe and protect him from whatever this is that is haunting him. She rocks him gently like she does for RJ at night and murmurs reassurances for both of them to hear "It's going to be ok, baby. It's going to be ok."


	7. Chapter 7

0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-

When Clay comes to he's back on the rope.

The drums are beating again above him, his lungs burn and scream for the oxygen he can't get past the constriction of his throat.

He still can't escape it and the horror of the situation comes back full force.

Clay doesn't understand why this is still happening to him and he desperately wants to go back to the beach, to the gentle lull of the waves and the soft sand, whatever that means for him.

An ice cold sensation breaks through the rising panic, so startling against the heat and the fire, that it shocks him awake and his eyes fly open to a blur of colours and brightness that is staggering after so much darkness.

He belatedly realizes his hands are free now when they rise automatically to claw at the pressure on his neck. Trying to loosen the rope. Trying to breathe.

Firm hands pull his away and Jason's distorted face registers somewhere into the kaleidoscope of colours that swirl at the edges of his blurry vision. Now he's terrified _and_ confused. Is this real? Is this a dream? Is he on the rope? Why is Jason here? Why can't he breathe?

He reaches out and grabs hold of him the closest part of Jason he can get to trying to anchor himself and find some sort of tangible proof about whether this is real or not. He makes solid contact with the familiar hard material at the front of Jason's chest and the firm chest plate sends a powerful wave of familiarity and safety through him and douses some of his fight. Bravo One is real. This must be real.

Above him Jason's mouth moves but the words are lost to the ringing that's made a reappearance and drowns out anything and everything around him.

Still if his team is here things must be ok.

He clutches onto that one small fact like a life ring to keep him afloat as the overwhelming deluge of sensations from his racing heart, tortured throat, and seizing lungs washes over him and threatens to sink him.

He drifts for a while just focused on the all consuming task of trying to get air and even that is too much and dark hues start to swirl and overtake the bright lights and he loses track of everything.

When he wakes again the ringing is gone, replaced by blaring alarms and words shouted loudly around him that abruptly welcome him back and exacerbate the pounding in his head beyond belief.

It takes a second longer this time to realizes the noose is still there. That he still can't breathe with the rope pressing all around his neck. His fingers reach for it and meet hard plastic instead. Firm hands efficiently move his away and back to his side and when he tries again, voices that he doesn't recognize tell him to relax, not to fight.

Not to fight.

Don't they understand he is still choking?

Don't they understand he still can't breathe?

Why isn't this over yet?

Desperation starts to well up and he registers something said about a sedative followed shortly by a sharp prick and then he is forced back down into the darkness.

The next time he comes around he is infinitely calmer.

He can feel the swirl of fear and adrenaline begin to kick up as his body prepares for another fight, to endure more, but then it gets firmly overruled by whatever drugs are now coursing through his system.

It gives him a second to think rationally and to realize that while something is still squeezing his neck shut, his lungs are no longer burning with a critical need for air. Then he notices the cold air being funneled into his mouth and nose through a hard mask and he greedily sucks down the oxygen and rejoices when some of it actually goes down past his tortured airway.

Clearer headed now, his eyes land on Stella sleeping in the chair beside him. Her one hand intertwined in his and her other arm pillowing her head on the side of his bed.

In a completely foolhardy move he tries to call her name and his throat alights with the fire of a thousand strep throat and tonsillitis diagnoses all combined.

He winces, making a mental note to never speak again and then with a surprising amount of effort manages to lift a finger and rub her hand

She comes to with a start, eyes widening and then filling with tears when she sees him awake.

He quickly forgets his vow of silence and opens his mouth to try to comfort her, razor throat be damned.

"Shhhhh, don't talk" she cuts him off.

He frowns slightly, and then tries to mouth the words he intended to say "I'm sorry"

He is so damn sorry. For all of it.

Stella just shakes her head at him, "Stop… it's ok. You're ok...we're ok"

She leans closer and gently puts her forehead to his, carefully avoiding the mask. They stay that way for a while, tears running down both their cheeks and he just lets himself be held.

He isn't alone.

He can breathe again.

And he let's those thoughts carry him back away.

The next time he awakens it's the same feeling of terror and also the same overpowering heaviness and drowsiness that won't let his body react to the threat his brain is pretty sure is still there. He probably should care more that he apparently needs this level of anti-anxiolytics or sedatives or something not to freak the fuck out but honestly he is too exhausted to care. Too tired to fight something that maybe is actually necessary at this point.

When he finally convinces himself to open his eyes, the crowd is gone, he isn't in his cell, his team is there all around him, squeezing his shoulder and patting his arm.

He stares around at their guilty somber expressions and wonders who died. With that thought even the drugs aren't enough to stop a sudden spike of fear and his eyes do a quick, frantic search around the room and thankfully count the right number of people.

A few seconds later he comes to the somewhat obvious conclusion that it was him.

He died.

Or at least he thought he did.

Now that he actually thinks about it he doesn't quite understand how he isn't dead, although the smart money says he has the guys around him now to thank for that.

He tries to convey his gratitude but it's hard because the mask is still on and his eyes don't seem to want to stay open any longer so that doesn't leave him much to work with. He falls back asleep listening to their muted chatter and vague reassurances that things are going to be ok, he is going to be ok.

They aren't completely wrong.

From there his physical recovery is actually fairly fast.

The next time he wakes he is more with it. Able to stay awake long enough for the doctors to run tests and proclaim to the world that the oxygen deprivation didn't do any permanent brain damage. It's nice to hear, although that concern really hadn't crossed his mind and it opens the door for Sonny to make all sorts of jokes about his pre-existing lack of brain cells so it's a bit of a wash.

He is discharged two days later after the doctors are satisfied that his trachea is going to stay open enough for him to breathe now that they got the acute swelling under control.

It turns out his captors did a really terrible job at trying to hang him which was both his worst fear and also ironically what saved his life. He escaped the ordeal with no fractures and just a hell of a lot of soft tissue and muscle damage that will all heal (eventually).

Until then to say his neck is sore is probably an understatement. He has a fair amount of trouble moving his head or turning it, but then again he has also done worse at the gym or after a rough night of sleep, so as long as he can ignore the hideous markings that tell the true story he can almost pretend one of those benign things is the culprit.

He graduates from ice chips, to liquids, to ice cream, to soups and stews. And then one day even gets adventurous and purees a cheese burger which was in retrospect a terrible idea right from the start.

There are a few lingering symptoms that persist, some lightheadedness and headaches that crop up periodically, a perpetual sore throat, and a voice that still sounds like it's been through the blender.

All in all he feels like the actual outcome wasn't all that bad. It's nothing compared to the bombing and the long months he spent trying to earn back some semblance of his own independence again.

He is basically already back on his feet and as long as the ice cream stays stocked in the freezer and no one expects him to be a great conversationalist anytime soon he is doing alright.

Physically at least.

Mentally it doesn't take him long to figure out he's maybe a little less than alright.

They send him home from the hospital with a small pharmacy of anti-anxiety drugs, clonazapam, alpazolam, diazapam, pretty much if it ends in "am" he has it covered.

He throws them all out on his way out of the hospital in a burst of confidence infused by fresh air and his speedy release. It's only upwards from here right? Back to regular life he left behind barely two weeks ago.

Except maybe that isn't quite the case.

He may not have a long physical rehab ahead of him but the psychological issues that rear their head look like they might be just as enduring and could threaten his career in a completely different way. To that end he doesn't even protest when Eric tells him he has mandatory counselling appointments scheduled, willing to try anything at this point to get back to normal life and normal Clay.

The biggest thing is he continues to struggle with waking up. Even days later he still opens his eyes in the midst of a budding panic attack.

He figured that home in his own bed he would be calmer, more sure of his surroundings. Unfortunately those factors are no match for the agonizingly slowly receding tight throat sensation that sends him right back to that day every time he wakes up. Within seconds he is back on the rope, panic coursing through him and he finds it physically impossible to breathe until his hands can make their way to his throat and convince himself that the rope isn't there, he isn't still dangling under the gallows.

The first time it happens, Stella tries to help him and they learn quickly, and the hard way, that her natural instinct to try to hold him is about the worst thing for this situation. He hopes to be able to enjoy her arms wrapped around him again at some point but for now they have to settle for Stella's hand finding his in those hellish moments, offering comfort just like it did in his dream, or hallucination or whatever that was. This time it's real though, her fingers interlacing with his, grounding him and anchoring him to this reality.

Once he gets past that initial morning hurdle he does alright most of the time. At least everyone else seems to think so. He hears a constant stream of comments on how well he's doing and how great it is to have him back.

The only problem is he doesn't really feel back. Who ever it is that came back isn't the same Clay Spenser that left.

This Clay is unsettled and rapidly cycles through extreme emotions like a never ending ping pong game played only in his head.

At times he is intensely grateful and at other times profoundly bitter and angry, mostly at himself that it even happened in the first place. There is also a strong urge to make his second chance on life count that energizes him and inspires him to move forward but it gets repeatedly shut down by a frustrating inability to fully escape the awful event and the lingering panic and fear that clings to him like a bad odour he can't wash out.

It doesn't help that his everyday life holds a million little triggers that bring it all back, all of it.

The most obvious ones are there every time he looks in the mirror

The marks around his eyes and harsh bruising on his neck are slow to fade no matter how much fancy arnica cream Stella rubs on. The bright blues and purples have almost faded out to be replaced by subtler yellows and greens but the harsh red line shows no signs of going anywhere and reminds him at every opportunity about the desperation, helplessness, and the fear that was such a foreign response to him before and now is all too familiar.

Even if he manages to avoid seeing it, other people are happy to help remind him. They stare, they gawk and they point when they think he can't see.

There is one particularly bad outing where he and Stella try to join Davis and Sonny for a relaxing afternoon ice cream tasting at the new place in town that just opened up and offers tasting flights of your favorite flavors. What they didn't take into account was the amount of families that would be there with kids who aren't at all that subtle when they stare . Davis, who was the driving force behind this activity, ends up suggesting they get their cones to go and then a few days later when he is hiding out from prying eyes and reflective surfaces in his cage he finds a package with ten brand new high colored shirts sitting on his bench.

They have a soft rim making them not too tight or constricting like the turtle necks he already tried and couldn't keep on, there are a couple different colors to mix and match for all occasions, and most importantly they come up high enough to cover the worst of the damage.

Davis is an angel.

It solves one problem, but even the best logistics specialist first class can't do much about the small issue of his miraculous rescue and recovery that renews it's spot on the front page of every paper and every online news outlet once his identity accidentally gets leaked.

And by accidentally he means his dad "accidentally" on purpose lets it slip so he can talk about his hero son and get some extra publicity

Fucking asshole.

The interview airs his first night out with the guys while he is slowly trying to drink a beer one painful sip at a time. He watches in disbelief and then has to make a mad dash to the bathroom where the beer reappears even more painfully on the way up.

After that he and Stella are inundated with requests for interviews, for talk show appearances and for book deals. Clay refuses to answer his phone and eventually has to change his number. Reporters show up around his house. Profiles go up online detailing his service and his capture and speculating on his recovery. People waste what appears to be substantial amounts of time doing research on his childhood, his parents lives, his grandparents, his military career. Clay's entire life gets turned into media fodder and there are articles theorizing on the stupidest shit up to and including what went through his head when he was hanging. That one actually makes him laugh. He almost wants to answer back to that one because what they came up with is not even close. The reality was a lot more simple, a lot less poetic, and would probably disappoint the masses to know that it was mostly just a repetitively litany of need air...need air...need air.

His dad tries to come visit once after that and it just so happens its conveniently while Sonny is over hanging out. Sonny opens the door, punches him in the face and then shuts it without so much as a word.

The Texan comes to sit back down on the couch and angrily flips through several channels. They end up on the cooking station watching a guy try to coax corned beef, kale, chocolate and kidney beans into something edible. A few minutes later, right as the guy is about to present his dish that looks surprisingly good, Clay bursts out in the best version of garbled laughter his throat can manage. He ends up mostly shuddering with silent laughter while Sonny stares at him evidently concerned for his sanity. He continues on and eventually Sonny starts to chuckle bemusedly along with him.

Blackburn and Jason find it whole lot less funny when Sonny's hand starts to swell and Trent diagnoses broken knuckles before the X Rays can even come back. They assume, like most people do, that it's the result of a bad bar decision which rates as a spectacularly poor reason to have a second member of Bravo on medical leave for the foreseeable future. There is talk of disciplinary action for Sonny, possibly even a suspension, right up until Ash's next interview airs and features two spectacular back eyes that the best makeup artists can't hide and a very painful looking nose splint. Then Jason buys his number three a case of beer and Blackburn shakes Sonny's hand and its never brought up again.

For his part Clay begrudgingly continues seeing his shrink. She's tolerable enough, and definitely smart enough, and some of the things she teaches him turn out to be fairly effective when he gets desperate enough to try them. They help him cope with the sudden surges of anxiety that sometimes have defined obvious triggers and other times seemingly come out of nowhere. He learns to rely on breathing techniques and "mindfulness" routines that he previously would have scoffed at big time. Now, despite all his previous skepticism, he will readily admit they do an impressive job at calming his racing heart and convincing his brain it's not going to die.

The problem is it all just feels like bandaids. Like damage control, rather than a solution.

The nightmares, the morning panic attacks and the general jumpiness don't show any signs of going anywhere anytime soon, even if he can now "handle" them better.

The thing is he doesn't want to just cope or handle, he wants to get past it. Wants to dig deep and find whatever this is and pull it out, roots and all, so it can never take hold of his life again.

And yes that's probably not how it works but he doesn't care. Clay is rapidly growing tired of hearing well meaning bullshit about his recovery that all sounds like it comes from a daily calendar.

_Be patient. _

_Take one small step a day_

_Time is the only healer._

Instead of being reassured he is more and more concerned that he may never be fixed. He starts to think that he is somehow is going to make it all the way back from being shredded by an explosion and hanged within an inch or his life and end up not being able to go back to work because he can't pass a damn psych eval.

Ironically it's not the highly qualified, highly experienced shrink who figures it out. It's actually Stella who inadvertently causes a light bulb moment in a passionate rant fueled by her regular Sunday night phone call with her parents. He is really only half listening while he lies on the floor and works though his physio prescribed neck strengthening exercises. He paces himself through chin tucks and posture balancing and she paces above him complaining about this week's edition of whatever inconsiderate, insensitive or downright insulting thing her parents said to her.

From what he gathers today's touchy topic was an airing of grievances by her parents about how they have been impacted by the media attention that has expanded outwards to them by association. He can almost, almost understand their frustration but Stella is not so forgiving and finishes her rant with a truly condemning statement that catches him by surprise."They always love to play the victim and they are so damn good at it." She pauses and looks down at him, "Maybe you should send them an apology card for their pain and suffering. Something along the lines of _Sorry, I got captured, tortured and hanged_. Maybe draw little hangman game and see if that penetrates through their cloud of self absorption."

Clay barely even processes her sarcasm or indignation, or her card idea that probably wouldn't cut it in any stationary store he knows of.

He's still stuck on the first part,

On playing the victim.

He evidently looks as pale and stricken as he feels because Stella leans down and rubs his shoulder gently looking guilty.

"Sorry babe, didn't mean to go too far with that."

He manages to get enough moisture back in his throat to reassure her and expends some effort to drum up a fake laugh that he hopes sounds like somewhat sincere appreciation for her dark humor that any other time he actually would really have enjoyed.

Meanwhile his mind is racing, latching onto and dissecting the absurdity of the idea of "playing the victim"

Being referred to as the victim has occurred more than a few times over the last few weeks, from doctors, from the media, even from his therapist and he's never really connected to how much he hates that he has been designated that role in this scenario and just how much it's still bothering him.

He isn't good at "playing the victim". Never has been, never will be. Its not something he would ever willingly choose to do. A role he would never ever choose to cast himself in.

But he didn't have a choice in this macabre play. The part was his whether he liked it or not.

He's never been that out of control in his life and he hated every second of being powerless and at someone else's mercy.

He had no control over the situation.

No control over his body at the end.

No control over the panic and automatic responses his body endured.

He was forced into it for nine long days and even now can't fully escape his starring role.

He wishes he had only been "playing the victim" because at least then he would have known what was going on. Would have had a script and not felt so completely clueless as to what was going on around him.

In a sudden fit of inspiration he decides it's time to change that.

He wants some control back.

And while he can't undo anything that happened the one thing he can control is his knowledge about the situation.

The next morning he tracks Mandy down and insists on hearing and seeing it all. He's gotten the basics out of the guys, enough to understand the general sequence of events, but he wants it all. All the nitty gritty details. And he knows if he asks anybody else they would try to talk him out of it.

Mandy doesn't even try. She just looks at him appraisingly and asks "Are you sure?"

There is no sympathy, no judgement, no angle, just a cold calculating assessment that he must pass because she finally nods and sets it up for him like any other briefing.

The analyst walks him through it step by step, starting from his disappearance, in a low emotionless tone.

It's weird watching his movements from this perspective, especially when he has little to no memory of it. For example, he watches the truck drive away from the village and knows he must be in there but has absolutely no recollection of it. As she continues, he begins to truly appreciate all the dead ends they ran into trying to track the video. The small resentful part of him that he didn't want to acknowledge now understands why exactly it took so long to find him.

And then she starts to go into how they actually did find him. The tattoo breakthrough that changed everything. He can't help but appreciate how ironic it is that his suicide attempt, was the deviation that ended up leading to his rescue.

Mandy's voice gets more excited as she talks about figuring out the man's identity, the intelligence that lead to the region and there's a satisfaction she can't keep out of her voice when she details how they used thermal imaging to identify the hot spot that corresponded to the safe house. He never even thought about what kind of equipment was necessary to make those videos. Filming them was easy, any basic camera would get the job done. However the computer technology necessary to mask their location while uploading, that was a whole lot more specialized and it turns out requires some pretty heavy duty equipment that gives off a lot of heat. His head swims when she starts going into the specifics of the processing speed and ram required to pull off what they did. It's fascinating, and chilling to see the one room of the house he was in light up like a christmas tree when she applies the thermal filters and he is again struck by the irony in their attempt to be secure and secretive being the thing that gave them away in the end.

Some God somewhere really had a wicked sense of humor about this whole affair.

And then he watches the footage of the main event even though he knows he shouldn't. It's close but he manages not to lose the contents of his stomach as he relives the terrifying fear, the feel of the rope, the weightless moment, the poignant discomfort of dying alone while the whole world watches.

Mandy pretends not to notice when he has to take a sudden break and disappears for a while to lean against a wall in the hallway outside. He grounds himself like he's been taught, focusing on the solid cement underneath his feet, the hard wall against his back, and the air that can and does flow down and into his lungs as he forces himself to take some measured inhalations.

When he comes back in she continues on as if he never left and they move on to reviewing the tactical elements of his rescue.

Clay insists on watching the ISR and listening to the coms channels from that day, just like they do for any AAR when something goes sideways on a mission. He searches for that connection back to this side of the incident. To the tasking, the parameters, the objectives and to being part of the solution not just being part of the problem to be solved and the victim to be rescued.

He watches the helicopter footage, listens to the call and notes the eerie absence of the usual pre-mission banter that leads to long breaks in the radio chatter as the team approaches the site. Then the reactions as they finally come into view, Sonny's guttural howl and the sharp retort of Ray's rifle breaking the silence.

Clay watches the body cam footage sway with the motion of the still moving helicopter and his chest tightens. He speaks for the first time in a while, forcing out two terse words.

"Rewind that."

Mandy raises an eyebrow but doesn't question it.

She goes back a few minutes to just as the city starts to come into view and they watch it back to the same point.

"Again, please"

Clay's stomach starts to churn as he becomes more and more certain about what he is seeing.

And what it means.

He sits in his car for a long time after that, thinking through, trying to come up with any other alternative, any explanation for what he saw and the conclusion he's drawing.

He doesn't find one.

Clay intends to go home. He planned for this to be the end, to be able to leave it all here at the base once and put it behind him once and for all.

When he finally starts driving it becomes clear there is a different destination and a different plan in mind now.

He shows up at Ray's house, unexpected and unannounced, and he must look as off as he feels because when Ray opens the door he looks at him questioningly, with some manner of concern and asks "everything ok brother?"

Clay struggles to figure out how to respond to that for several reasons. One, he doesn't actually know a good answer to that question these days, and more importantly he doesn't know how to broach the topic he came here to discuss. Starting with so _you tried to shoot me_ doesn't seem like the best opening line.

Ray figures it out in the meantime watching him work through it and the smaller man's face visibly pales "You watched it, huh?"

Yep, Clay watched it alright. Five times just to be sure

He now knows exactly what kind of chance Ray had of making the shot, from that distance, in a moving helicopter, with no spotter or wind call… there was no way he actually thought he could hit that tiny rope. Clay doesn't care how good a shot, Ray is or isn't. No one could make that shot with any degree of accuracy.

And Ray is too smart and too careful to take a shot he isn't sure of. If it was anyone else in a fit of emotion and desperation, sure he could see it, but there's a reason Ray is Bravo 2. He wouldn't have let the bullet fly if he wasn't confident he could make the shot. An inch wide rope, under those conditions, no way.

However there was a much larger, rounder target just below the rope that he would have had a way better chance at hitting and might have aimed at for an entirely different reason.

Which means Clay is betting everything he has, or at least probably their friendship at this point, on his deduction that the bullet didn't actually hit the target it was aiming for.

If there was any doubt in his mind Ray's guilty reaction erases it and confirms it for him. Its painfully obvious etched in the heavy lines of grief and devastation on his face that Ray Perry, rock of their team and pillar of faith, took careful aim and tried to shoot Clay in the head.

The fact that he actually missed doesn't appear to matter to the man. Clay imagines it actually makes it harder even though the result obviously worked out better than expected. Ray is clearly still shouldering the weight of what must have been an impossible decision in hellish situation.

And he loves the man for making it.

Clay is unspeakably grateful for his teammate making the hard choice to end his pain and set him free. In that moment he would have welcomed it without any reservation.

Ray looks away from his scrutiny, blinking heavily and swallowing hard.

"I'm sorry man, I thought it would be better than…"

"Don't". Clay cuts him off harshly, voice still gravely and foreign to his own ears, and then it shorts out completely before he can continue.

Ray flinches back, eyes shooting downward at the anger he misinterprets in Clay's tone.

That wasn't at all where Clay was trying to go with it and he determinedly swallows hard and manages to finish pushing the words out around the lump in his throat.

"Don't you dare be sorry."

Now Ray looks hopefully up at him, eyes tentative and unsure, studying his teammate carefully. Clay hopes he only sees sincere appreciation, no judgement and certainly no blame. He can't imagine what that decision would have cost Ray. The burden he was willing to carry for the rest of his life to alleviate Clay's suffering in that moment when there was no other hope, and no other way out.

Finally Ray let's out something between a laugh and a sob. He clears his throat and shakily says "You are one lucky s.o.b. You know that?"

Yes, yes he does. But not for the reason Ray is thinking. He considers himself to have the best luck in the world to have ended up on Bravo with teammates who will come for him and brothers who, when push comes to shove, will make the hard decisions and be willing to live with the consequences for him.

All that goes unsaid for now, but maybe one day, when this is less raw and less painful, maybe they can revisit it. And they can actually say what probably should be said.

Instead Clay swipes carefully by one side of his face that feels suspiciously moist and then takes it in a different direction that will be easier on both of them.

"Yeah, lucky you are such a piss poor shot. When I get back, I'm going to have to take you to the range and give you some pointers old man"

They both smile at the inane and familiar banter. Ray pretends to be offended and they let it drop.

Clay comes in, cracks open the bottle of whiskey he brought and pours them both a strong one.

Stella joins them on her way home from work and they drink a few cold ones, have a nice dinner and then spend the evening playing clue and battleship with the little ones and don't think about anything other than their loved ones around them.

Later as Clay watches Jameleeh dance around in her well worn frozen pajamas that are too small for her but she refuses to grow out of, he tightens his fingers around Stella's, remembering that vision of the future he wanted so badly to have the opportunity to make happen. She smiles at him curiously, and goes back to watching Jamee's antics with a soft smile that makes him think he might not be so alone in that desire.

When it's time to go they say their goodbyes in the doorway and Stella and him head for home. They are more than halfway down the driveway when a cry from Ray brings Clay to a stop. They turn and the man gestures at him to wait for a minute and then disappears back inside for a second. Clay shrugs at Stella and waits in place while she continues down towards the car, Naima too seems to take it as her cue to make herself scarce.

Ray eventually returns into view and takes a shortcut across the lawn to meet him. He clears his throat and now seems to be having the same problem choosing his words as Clay did earlier in the evening. Finally he just presses something into Clay's hand and says with firm resolve "remember we will always have your back... no matter what." He gives Clay a painful half smile and then hurries back towards his house.

Clay watches Ray all the way back to the threshold where Naima magically reappears at the perfect time to slip her arm around her husband and enter at his side. When the door closes behind them Clay finally looks down and opens his hand to find a frayed piece of rope that he recognizes immediately for what it is.

He stares at it for a long moment in disbelief, then once the numbness wears off there is an onslaught of conflicting emotions, of unbelievably painful memories, fear and uncertainty, but also the representation of his teams relentless dedication, and the insane luck that affords him the opportunity to be standing here today in this moment.

For a second it's a toss up, he doesn't know whether to burn the thing or frame it on his wall. He stays frozen another few seconds longer until he catches a glimpse of Stella waiting patiently in his car and the significance becomes crystal clear. His hand folds around the rope with a new determination to seize every second of this new lease on life and he heads down the last few steps towards her.

Months later things have mostly died down.

He never did find the magic cure he was looking for but the moments of stress and strain gradually become less and less frequent and when they do crop up he is more than capable of handling them. Just like he is more than capable of passing his psych eval when the time comes.

It turns out he was the only one who doubted himself on that one.

The evaluator doesn't seem at all concerned when his probing questions quickly manage to reveal some of the issues that still plague Clay. The disarming man systematically exposes most of Clay's insecurities regarding the incident and eventually draws out a brutally honest admission from Clay about how he doesn't even feel like the same person anymore.

Clay is sure it's over at that point. That he can kiss his clearance goodbye.

Instead the man looks up at him, nods approvingly and bluntly responds, "I wouldn't expect you to be. I'd be more concerned if you thought you were." It's the most reassuring thing he's heard in a long time by a long shot. It's permission he didn't realize he was missing to move on, to not fit back into the same box as before. There's no doubt it's a little scary, and that a part of him still mourns how things were before, but it's also a bit invigorating and gives him license to grow and change without impunity into whoever he wants to be now. That idea sits better than he expected as he mulls it over in the following days and weeks.

The media attention slowly loses interest. Moving on to the ever faithful, ever popular topics of royal babies, political gaffes, and natural disasters that can always be counted on for a ratings boost.

He goes out for several spin ups and things go well. Admittedly there are a few moments that cause him maybe more consternation than they would have before. There's some level of hypervigilance which initially annoys him but he eventually decides he can live with, especially if it gets him back home safe at the end of the mission. And he slowly chips away at the hard parts of himself, the invisible scars and scabs, and works to uncover what he hopes still lies underneath.

It turns out it's still there, his faith in humanity and belief in the value of all human life. Deep, deep down, he still holds on to it in some form and it finally makes a reappearance after one mission in Nepal where the team is on their way back to their mobile TOC and witness a child get swept away by a strong current in a river. Clay dives in without a second thought and pulls him out, and there is only one slightly hairy moment before he manages to grab onto some rocks to prevent them both from getting swept away.

Afterwards Jason complains about new grey hairs and Trent maybe takes a little too much glee in stitching up his head lac and relocating his shoulder that "grabbed" the rocks, but none of that stops Clay from smiling through the pain.

Sonny asks him what the hell he's grinning at and Clay doesn't even bother trying to explain. It's simpler to let the man assume it's the morphine kicking in rather than share his satisfaction with the re-emergence of instincts he thought life might have finally beaten out of him. He doubts the team will be as excited as he is especially because those instincts sometimes make their lives a little harder.

There is also one instinct that he now feels more certain than ever that it's time to act on.

A few weeks before they are set to go on a new deployment he decides he wants to take Stella out for a nice dinner at a new trendy restaurant the next town over.

The food is spectacular, the bottle of wine goes down easy and things are going great right up until he gets recognized.

The man approaches their table and asks for an autograph and a picture with the Seal hero guy who survived being hanged.

Clay politely declines, same as always, but this guy won't take no for an answer. Just doesn't get it and keeps asking them in the hopes that trying just one more time in one more different way will change the answer.

When it doesn't he gives up on the autograph and tries to settle out of court for a selfie that doesn't require any participation on Clay's part. Clay just looks away, determined to ignore the situation but Stella has had enough. She rises and shoves the phone out of the way and snaps "Hey asshole, take a hint."

She sits back down fuming and Clay is now finding the situation much more entertaining and mouths "hey asshole" at her disbelievingly because t_hat's_ the best line a literature professor could come up with. She rolls her eyes and disengages from his mockery in favor of continuing to glare at the aforementioned asshole who still hovers nearby.

He continues to badger them, telling Clay to be a good sport, claiming it's not a big deal, just one photo, and he takes less and less care to keep his voice low as he goes.

Before long the whole restaurant is staring. It's a whole other room full of people watching the show intently and he's back at centre stage.

All of a sudden Clay finds it a little less funny and lot more reminiscent.

His heart rate kicks up, his throat tightens the way it does now when he is stressed, and he is very much over the situation.

Stella senses the change and suggests "Let's just go babe."

He just shakes his head wordlessly. Refusing to give into the desire to flee or abandon the mission.

He just wanted this one night, one normal night, one step forward. Apparently he can't even have that.

It's discouraging on so many levels.

Before he can make any sort of decision either way, another voice joins the conversation.

"Is there a problem here?"

Clay looks up to find the chef standing at their table now just to add some extra fuel to the fire and make this an even bigger show than it already is. He's a large, well built man, who looks more like he belongs in a UFC club than in an apron.

The asshole is the first to answer and waves him off dismissively, "No, no problem here."

But the Chef isn't so easily deterred. "Maybe I phrased that wrong, let me try again…. I have a problem here. You, in my restaurant."

The man doesn't go quietly, but eventually he does, with threats of bad reviews and bad publicity that don't seem to phase the restaurant owner and chef in the slightest.

In fact he turns around, and loudly announces for everyone to go back about their business and to pick out their favorite drink on the menu, on the house. Within moments the usual buzz has picked back up and people are paying more attention to the drink menu then they are to Clay and Stella.

Only then does the chef turn back to them, he doesn't say a word. No fake platitudes or insincere statements, he just holds out a hand to Clay and when Clay reaches out to clasp it his eyes catch on some familiar tattoos. With a sincere nod of gratitude shared between men who have been there and get it, the Chef walks away and disappears back into the kitchen.

Their bill never comes.

And later after dessert is finished Clay finds the courage to get up from his chair even though the simple action makes his heart begin to pound, his throat to tighten in that all too familiar way and causes his legs to tremble traitorously underneath him. He takes a deep breath and gets down on one knee, willing his voice to come out steady when he asks Stella to share in this new life with him.

All eyes are back on him, on them, and he couldn't care less.

He is suffocating, watching her, waiting, and then she says _yes_ and he can breathe again.

The ring goes on her finger and there are cheers, hugs, champagne and pictures and he decides that being the center of this attention is tolerable, worth it even, to get to see the radiant smile on her face right now.

Before they go he stoops down to pick up the small black ring box and the decorative twine that was discarded in her haste to open it. He fingers the fine braid and carefully winds it up and puts it back in his pocket.

Maybe one day, he will tell her where it came from.

About how he carefully deconstructed a much thicker piece of rope with a much darker history and spent countless hours painstakingly joining the short, frayed strands together into longer pieces. Then after watching a few youtube tutorials he braided them together an impressive dexterity that would have given Sonny all sorts of ammunition if he ever saw it in action. The resulting thin delicate band, served a very different purpose, and he can't help but hope some of the luck will carry over into their new lives together. Call him a sappy romantic, call him an optimist, call him whatever you want, but he hopes the tough times, the ups and downs and the dark moments they endured together as a result of that rope will now serve to bind their new lives together. He has a second chance now and he intends to spend the rest of it with her building that life he almost missed out on.

0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0

_**And once the storm is over you won't remember how you made it through, how you managed to survive. You won't even be sure, in fact, whether the storm is really over. But one thing is certain. When you come out of the storm you won't be the same person who walked in. That's what this storm's all about.**_

_**Haruki Murakami, Kafka on the Shore**_

0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0

_This storm is over. _

_Hope everyone enjoyed it as much as I enjoyed writing it. _


End file.
